Dillsburg, PA

For Pui

The frogs have begun whistling.
Black walnut trees, their green globes
the size of tennis balls, have not begun to shed,
or to make their mess, though they secret
walnuts inside. There is a retention pond,
not useful any longer, but once good for fire,
if one happened nearby, or for thirsty cattle.
Now it is moss, chomped through branches
carpet its surface, probably poisoned by juglone.
I imagine, like to imagine, below
there is ancient water, water that is glass clear,
where my dead daughter can drink and murmur
along with the frogs. I imagine, beneath the jade
smut and decay, the story of every person
who has ever visited this house, who has ever
tucked the sheer curtain behind the brass leaf,
opened a window, at least once, for air or to look away
from a stupid mistake made over and over, the story
of every person who has needed to hear the high pitched
whistles and squeaks, is gathered, and finally understood,
while the frogs offer the only advice possible—
Listen.