A Prayer for Tadpoles: two poems by Lydia Kuerth

puddle with leaves, image by congerdesign, on Pixabay, modified

A Prayer for Tadpoles

Ripples nip the curbside puddle,

a strip of bile-brown bathtub

clogged with leaves

and shrinking

under the sun’s scowl.

Tadpoles teem beneath the sheen:

an inch-deep nursery drying daily

as tiny-tailed bodies

budge their brothers

like bumper cars.

Orphans of this stagnant shoal,

I pray

that your amphibious crib

may not drip

down to Sheol.

                      *

Golden Hour and a Glass of Water

Sunlight distills aqua into silver alchemy:

an elixir halo-crowned,

bubbles suspended

like glacier pearls—

an eclipse in a cup

Rainbow arc refracts

across notebook lines,

splintering frost

into warm white icicles

Transfixed,

I reel from writing—

As the sun descends the stairs of heaven

rays recede,

but I revive,

my heart become a prism.

Lydia Kuerth is a freelance writer studying English at Palm Beach Atlantic University,

where she serves as an editor and contributor to the Living Waters Review, as well as

a peer mentor at her university’s Writing Central. A lover of reptiles, rainy days, and

role-playing games, when not burrowing into books, she enjoys hiking and observing

the adventures of insects. 

December 2025 issue