Every day they went to work
became an opportunity to escape
down to the frog pond.

Mother’s coffee pot strainer
lay drip drying in the dish rack,
I hoped she wouldn’t notice 

if a tadpole or two was still housed 
in the stainless steel basket, 
late afternoons were full of watery joy

they never seemed to take notice,
I didn’t think very much about them either,
every day they went to work

I was just glad to be free, what did 
I know about their lives, their dreams? 
Nothing. Not one thing.

Much later, a clearer picture emerged,
understanding in a new way about
crushed dreams and melancholy refrains.

Now all that remains are these memories,
long after the frog pond dried up,
a new house taking its place.

The Escape

Carefully climb onto the windowsill

in your parent’s bedroom,

gently ease the screen open.

Step onto the roof, feeling the night

air surround and pull you to it.

Make sure they don’t notice as you

shimmy down the cold metal spout

landing softly in the damp grass.

Make your way down the steep

driveway, crossing the empty street,

walk silently between the houses

to the rutted dirt path.

Listen to the bullfrog, the wind

in the willow tree and the moon’s sigh.

Breaking into a run, watch for

the familiar sparkle past the bend,

sit at the end of the creaky dock,

breathing freely again, toes breaking

the watery surface just below.

Susan Haifleigh is a Michigan-based poet who passionately believes that we can make a difference with our creative work in a world that presents new challenges every day..