Cicadas cry, it seems, every summer.
Scientists may know why cicadas do this,
but only the poet understands why it matters.
Evergreen do I adore to see cicadas bloomed,
just as I adore to witness desperate hearts
beat faster than the wafer wings
that must vessel the former in an ending world
that can’t be fixed.
For 17 years one Sun had been forgotten;
For 17 years life took form in spite of constant darkness;
For 17 years life prepared itself for death,
And for 5 to 6 weeks life ended with a red pill,
Newfound wings, and bio-programmed nymphomania.
Indeed––their husks become before they’re through.
If a whole life can be defined by the merits of one chapter,
The Lord has ensured this is the chapter that we all read,
And that is a connection to nature whose bond we must feed
For that in itself is what we must be.
Evergreen do I adore to see cicadas bloomed
just like the conifer before broadleaves in June.
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