Cicada’s chorus,
High among sycamore’s green tendrils,
Crescendos of summer,
Cacophony of 7 year sleep,
Memory seeps in and out.
Lapping waves of recollection.
Exo-skeletal molted shells,
The remnants of prior lives,
Crescendo of song,
Celebrating new things,
Higher possability
Among branches of summer’s throng.
Peeling back the browns and yellows
Of Old man’s changing wig,
To look within
And glean the mystery
Of summer messages remembered by me.