Why don’t you love me anymore?

I sit on a stone and wrap my tears

in sea lavender listening to the wind

whistle through my ears, famished

for the sweetness of your love.

I’m stuck on the memory

of when I first saw you

preening in the sun,

elegant as a white water lily.

I hopped across the pond

and plied you with fresh

sarsaparilla root beer

and a bed of emerald moss.

Your body was armored at first.

I thought you might have been

molested as a growing tadpole.

We swam under water together

like a mermaid in love with a Prince.

You sat beside me all night long

counting falling stars.

Remember the night you tried

to embrace the moon like Li Po,

and fell into the icy waters

of our estuary?

You wanted me to make you laugh.

I know I’m no Dana Carvey,

but I’ve learned a few new jokes

that will make you pee in your skin.

And don’t forget, you once said

I deserved a Nobel in lovemaking

for my flawless performance

when I wrapped my legs around you

in an embrace that left you all a quiver.

Now I grow hoarse galumphing all night,

hoping you will heed my call immediately.

Come back to me before I die of loneliness!

Just because I’m a bullfrog, doesn’t mean

I don’t have feelings.