The Cicada and The Cricket


The Cicada and the Cricket

By Michele Habel-Coffey


Where is the August giant?

Has it taken to the trees?

While its shell has fallen down below,

nearly crushed beneath my knees?


I was looking for the pen I’d dropped,

in the dark-green, shaded grass

And saw abandoned the perfect shell

A formed and hardened carcass.


Ah, but this is no singing cricket!

This is nothing but a fly.

Good for nothing insect

with relentless, metallic sighs.


The red-eyed demon has long gone,

upon transparent wings has sailed.

I cannot see the ghastly form,

only hear his screeching wails.


But in the pause, I hear the cricket

and though she cannot fly,

She sings from the very tops of trees

A peaceful lullaby.


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