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.