the cicadas know where the wind
went that quit my window--their
branches refuse to conduct.
yet their cadence remains perfected.
singing the wind's futureless window
under a summer sun, is not a punishable
offense.
it's the application of sound to the sense
of some perception, steadily building...
till marooned.
Aug 14, 2019
Aug 14, 2019 at 12:19 PM UTC
the cicadas know where the wind
went that quit my window--their
branches refuse to conduct.
yet their cadence remains perfected.
singing the wind's futureless window
under a summer sun, is not a punishable
offense.
it's the application of sound to the sense
of some perception, steadily building...
till marooned.
