I am a frog. I live in a well.
It's damp down here, but that's all right.
My skin's built for it. So are my organs.
When I go croak I'm a tongue in a bell,
and when I dive, my splashes ignite
a long series of echoes. But more than
anything else oh I love to expel
a deep deep blast of joy and excite
the still air with my name, with, "Morgan,
Morgan," again and again, and I yell
it so loud the frogs above me light
up their voices, "Morgan, Morgan."
After a minute it sounds like a spell.
And when I stop it's dark. The night
brings bugs and I hunt them with my snorkle
eyeballs alert for their eyes. For a cell
my walls are paradise despite
the cold, staring look in the morning,
when right at first it gives me a hell
of a fright. It's the way the light
reflects off the pool, black as a gorgon's
eye, and still. It will dwell
on empty space as a pupil might,
fixed on a white spot. I say, "Morgan,
wells are not for frogs!" I tell
myself it isn't worth the fright
to hide wedged in my niche every morning.
It passes. By noon I can smell
the yellow sun. The walls turn white.
My green skin is an emerald pouring
facets of color from every cell.
I'm blazing: I'm the source of light,
a frog crazy with joy, I'm Morgan
---by TJ Worthington, c 1973