Weightless in Death

It abided there, in miniature perfection,
gaspingly beautiful, the tiny creature.
Clearly, some gentle agent of nature
had misled the minuscule amphibian
to believe a windowsill poised above a
garden represented an ideal resting space.

When his presence was discovered, the
intention was to softly lift that perfect
little green frog into a warm and
welcoming palm, to convey it into
the nearby forested ravine where it
could be deposited to a habitat more
obviously suited to its needs, the creek
that winds its way down there.

It was, alas, not to be, for the creature
was not merely still, but inanimate,
life's force fled. How were we to know,
shuttering up night-time windows that
he was there, would be asphyxiated? His
tiny body, weightless in death had no
further care in death's imperious domain.