Ken Fifer

After Fire

According to

the Baal Shem Toad

even the frogs are croaking for us,
floating like brown leaves, noses exposed,
squeaking away, improbable chorus.
The point is singing and not hearing.
The point is hearing and not grasping.
The point is grasping and not holding.
One frog’s thoughts leap the thoughts
of the next, drawing out their commentaries.
They stare as frogs stare, past bare trees.
In a few weeks, the same trees, frogs believe,
will be turning green and starting again.
Frogs think of frogs as leaves, of course,
but more often think of leaves as frogs,
with a different speech, of another order,
probably related to toads. Philosophically,
one frog sings, philosophically, I mean,
they must be frogs because of their beauty,
frogs by right of their intelligence and music,
frogs by virtue of their webbed feet,
their lithe bodies, their splashy technique,
more dry and severe, less quick and sweet,
but all in all purely amphibian.
Each croak prolongs the breath in one key.
Each croak arranges the air in short leaps.
Each croak, so to speak, exhales a new leaf.
These frogs speak at a different frequency.
The point is singing and not hearing.
Nothing that croaks can be foreign to me.

52 Pages
$15
isbn 1-59661-050-6

Ken Fifer, a Professor of English and a Division Head at Penn State Berks, lives in Center Valley, Pennsylvania. He is the author of two previous books of poetry, Falling Man, and The Moss That Rides on the Back of the Rock. Water Presents received the 2004 Nova House Poetry Chapbook Prize.