I like how the cicada dies,
Leaving its crinkle, parched skin behind,
Breaking its own back in a mighty buck
To jump out of itself, wet and free.
I like how the cicada dries,
In the cool mid-night breeze,
Letting dew paint Art Nouveau
Lattices on its wings.
I like the cicada’s face, its
Two wide eyes set so far apart
That it sees east and west
At the same time.
But there is a secret very seldom known,
Three little eyes on the top
That make the cicada’s sight
A rainbow bridge of sorts.
I like when the cicada sings.
It’s the song of golden fields
And picnics by the lake and juicy,
Long kisses, trying to be chaste.
Some say the cicada sings to death,
A lonely cello, calling ardently its paramour.
All I know is that for most of its life
The cicada resembles a fat ant,
Living in the dark moisture of the earth,
Thinking that all there is, is its world bellow.
Until its season in the sun comes,
Like an itch, and urge, a silent call to open a door and go.
And the cicada wrinkles in the cool night and dies.
Only to leave its papery shell behind. And live.