Cicada

If our lives never ceased
we would someday awaken
in a damp cradle of dirt and crawl
to sun like honeysuckle. In hoards
our song becomes the song
to sing, if only for a day.
Unlike my sisters, I preferred
the years I spent soaring through
dreams of the morning
but now I find a branch
to grow old and split myself.
Oh starry starry night! This is how
I want to die:
twisted into the mud that made me
and singing my sisters to sleep
with rigid skin still gripping the oak
and soaking in the drowned sun.

Reviews

[Emily B]

it is a perfect poem, when i get tired of the song on the radio, i always go to the cricket or the cicada, there is much to be learned from there

[Yari Garcia (Older Prof..]

Quite interesting, though I'm not sure I grasped its meaning.