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A Cicada's Cry

I remember those late summer evenings,

how they grew so tremendous, forest green —

though I watched it with inane eyes back

then and often turned myself so

craven when alone — half listening to the

blue moon's lullaby, half listening to the

old cicadas' cry.


How was I supposed to know?


To feel that warm hum all

around me, to listen to that

high crescendo song — but that good summer

forgave me with grace, faced me

back to the unknown. And when

I stood big and tall in that forest green

evening, the cicadas had settled into their

very own place, and it was only me

and that blue moon lullaby

standing all alone.


 
 
 

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