Cicadas

Cicadas

The cicadas are back

with their tree top conversations.

They come back around my

brother’s birthday.

When they show up so

do thoughts of the streets I

roamed when all there was

was time to sit on the curb

under the streetlight and talk

about everything and nothing.

They would talk then we would talk.

Our conversations would break,

but theirs would chatter on.

Like background music at a café’

their music dribbled down from the canopy.

We would brush away mosquitoes

and our hair from our eyes while

we questioned the mystery of

the opposite sex.

The cicadas sang.

We would tell jokes and pull fingers

and slapstick each other ‘til we hurt.

The cicadas would laugh.

Our idle hands would ring

doorbells at midnight or

roll an old tire down West Main hill.

The cicadas would try to rouse

our victims.

We would play “kick the can” or

“hide and seek” or “sardines”.

I was O.K. with never being found.

I would lie under the stars and

attempt to interpret the cicada talk.

Their words would go on and on

like I thought my life would.

I’m in my forty sixth year of

receiving their beautiful gift.

Even now my natural response

is to look up through the trees

and imagine there must be a star

for each of their words.

Infinity of sight and sound

brushes my soul because of a

tiny creature that would rather

be heard not seen.