Thrice-Used Water

by Taylor Graham

Frogs fall out of the wet-mop hung to dry.
They’ve come from a neighbor’s pond,
its puzzle-bottom of baked hardpan.
No water anymore, the landscape’s brittle
as thirst. In a basin I collect our showers
to mop the kitchen floor, twice-used water
I’ll toss on the cedar tree outside my door.
I dunk my mop, its stiff strings loosening.
Out swim two tiny frogs from the oasis,
the only damp in this land, hung out to dry.