a gift of spilling killers

drifting over a liquid and blue meadow

frogs on high at sleep

sweating one hundred degrees on so many cluttered lily pads.

the fragrance of water,

a reflection - not of a thick honey hive

or plates or forks,

it is the food you are

a tart melon - a swaying olive tree -

a vine of sinful grapes.

when a frog leaps into the fountain

the white stone and mineral decay that reflects,

simply a wonder of stain and graffiti

as a quarter of waves eddy a surprise sigh.

a lonely lily pad floats

quiet like a green memory

remembering grass, trees, voices, sisters -

towers and plains -

and war.