the cicada does not care
about the years down underground
for those three months of play
and an exit, and another world, creation
and death – all in one.
his song transcends his night and day, weather
and sunshine alike,
spicing up the moments before all will be covered
in browns and reds, and cold colours.
every shooting star is greeted
by that piercing joy of the fall
coming, the silence and the summer retreating
impactless, deeper and deeper
into an earth ever un-
discovered, ever known in the bones of those
who have been there before.
so we circle like incandescent crickets
across the velvet of the sky, round all
the madly hot stars, as if the darkness aft
and fore were only an invitation
to a deeper, clearer immersion
into that which brings us out
of the chrysalis, and
closer to God.