BURT KIMMELMAN
Cicadas, Mid July
How odd the occasion, the whirring
of the cicadas, surprising once
we start to hear their secret business,
unseen no matter where we look – we
pause in our morning talk, wondering
when they arrived and why the summer’s
unforgiving heat begins with their
advent and later the cool early
evenings settle in with their silence.
Spring, in its false starts with the pushing
through soil and snow of its first flowers,
their small shocks of color, held us in
blossoms and leaves so we finally
let go of the thought that the light and
warmth would ever come to an end, but
the cicadas do their work – no more
twitters of birds, our sadness spun in
the din and the waning of the light.
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