Tiny frog visits

at the threshold.

Years have passed since she has come.

As much time feels past since this rain.

Her throat pulses against my finger,

our skins touching,

and the gold lining her eyes gleams.

I admire her form,

the soft wetness.

We are utterly different.

Warning her of the dangers of my swinging front door

I walk her to the altar

where water and succulent,

kind attention and beauty gather.

She knows her way around.

With thanks, we part.

Until her return

in the following young morning.