So, Todd Dropped By …

Out of the sky — or so it seemed —
plopped Todd the Toad where pencils dreamed.
Right on my table, calm and square,
as though he’d scheduled a landing there.

No croak of warning, no grand parade,
just Todd arriving in the shade.
A speckled fellow, earthy, wise,
with quiet moons for froggy eyes.

He sat awhile by pen and pad,
perhaps reviewing the sketches I had.
A critic? A muse? A traveling sage?
Or just a toad between acts on a stage.

He blinked once slow, as if to say,
“Carry on now… I’ll rest a day.”
Then closed his eyes, content to be
a small green note in the symphony.

And when I looked again — he’d gone,
as softly vanished as the dawn.
No farewell croak, no muddy clue —
just the memory of Todd… and morning dew.

But tables remember, and pencils nod —
there’s always room here
for Todd the Toad.

Todd the Toad