One does not hold back from calling thunder by its true name, from calling us to metamorphize from calling down wet blessings.

Frog carries cleansing in her throat, a song poured out until dry places recall they were made for water.

She sinks into mud's dark baptism and rises with webbed feet, with eyes that have learned how to see above the murk. She does not ask the mud to become slate, nor you to harden your parched heart.

She croaks "release old grief, borrowed fear, the stories you repeat to weave your cage." Let them all go. Let the tears come. Let the rain come.

There is no shame in being freed by a shower of mercy. The pond does not call itself weak because it receives the sky. The earth does not call itself broken because it opens to the weight of rain.

Cleansing is not punishment. It is preparation. It is making room for your next brave leap out of your old skin.

When Frog sings, she sings in the moonlight, sings with her brothers and sisters, Do not fear the storm she summons. Stand in it.

Let its holy water change everything you were into a voice calling for rain for every thirsty heart waiting to remember how to bloom.