Seventeen Year Locusts

I would rather not be remembering you
on this hillside where shadows trick the mind,
Sitting here on the edge of heaven
perception becomes epiphany
as twilight tints the world
with purple haze.

The last time cicadas sang their evening song
you borrowed the keys,  said you’d be home early.
I sat in this same chair,
“Midnight now, no later…You hear?”

You smiled and blew a kiss, cheeky boy!
How could I resist the joie de vivre?
The call came early. I rushed to your side,
but a lifetime passed before I got there.

All things considered
no matter how brief that flash called life
the scars of birth and death are worth it.
I think of the cicada, seventeen years of darkness
for two months of light. Listen to the joy
of their song.





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