Today I heard
spring's first cicadas,
singing like adrenalin,
celebrating last night's rain
that liberated bursts of sound,
burrowing from underground
through moistened earth
to glaze their wings
in lacquer sheen of photons
from munificent September sun.
Somewhere in the tender
russet foliage of Chinese elms
a trio of shrill stridulations
merge, embrace, and separate.
But if there were no trees, no plants,
would concrete stifle vibrant chant?
Cicadas, transubstantiate
spring's energy and radiance,
perform your steely sarabande
while yet you can…
Spring s first cicadas
© Copyright: Jena Woodhouse, 2005
Свидетельство о публикации №105091201089
Свидетельство о публикации №105091201089
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