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.