He usually writes about his routinerising before 5:00 to weak coffeescrubbing floors, painting wallshis one hour in the exercise yard,or a dream from the night beforea fishing trip with his father long dead.
Today he writes about the bullfrogin the alley behind his cell,it has survived winter,has emerged from a weep holein a retaining wall, so large nowit may not fit into the hole for long.
He reports that managementcut down a rose bushthat has graced the yard for years.Take heart, he writes, they cutonly the stems, didn’t know enoughto dig out the roots.
It is usually his regret that stayswith me long after the letter,but today it is the frog embodiedin the small rock that I excisefrom my garden, a damp bulkthat I lift toward the sun.
I give the rock legs, long and litheready to leap out and overup toward the warm lightbut his heaviness resists,draws inward, hardensinto an acceptanceof the dark safekeeping.
Photo by Mike Hindle on Unsplash