Cicada Songs

As a child I played with the husks,
those fragile shells
of what I was taught to call “locusts.”
I loved their song.

 Locusts clung to the walls of houses,
rough bark of trees,
even some 
to screens on windows.

 The greatest part of their lives
lies underground
in tunnels
they inhabit for years.

 Up to light they climb, 
dig their long way up and out
in the hot, humid days 
of summer. 

Once out, they shrug open their shells;
only then can fly 
after drying 
cellophane wings.

In sun, they sing, wings glisten, 
then, like us, they die,
lives measured in hours and days:
have sex, lay eggs, and sing.

In memory, their songs drone on.
They slow me down,
as with rhythm, they admonish patience.