In my dream i'm in his arms
In that same black dress
Barefoot in the soft grass
And we dance
We dance to the sound of the night
The soft crickets and the water's waves
And the steady beat of two hearts as one
And I'm lost in it all
Lost in your eyes and your voice
Lost in that soft black dress
Lost in the darkness of the night

The crickets and the train
How one sound can take you somewhere
But two sounds takes you fast
The summer air begins to shed its heavy skin
The crickets cry to the cold stars,
Harsh and brilliant
Are they beautiful, or just far away?
The train cries too
But at least the crickets
And the stars have each other
My love sleeps by my side
Deep breaths rise and fall
Another sound, but this one brings
Me back and keeps me from following
That train
Those crickets
Those stars
That sounds wraps me up in its arms
And whispers don’t go
There’s nothing for you there at the
End of summer

The very end of August
Brings a stillness in the night,
When the many trills of midsummer
Are silenced and the fireflies gone out!
Lying stilly and listening, I hear
A solemn drone, like an old contralto,
Trying to warble but instead
Radiating an insistent hum
That thrums athwart the arid air,
Long fingers scraping a humming tanpura.
Even the full moon is dry,
Gazing down, matter-of-fact,
Through the dust-like mist.
Summer has given up,
Letting leaves and vines dry up,
Tinged with red and shriveled bronze.
I could walk in the garden now,
And not worry about slugs on
The dried stalks of lilies.
The robust asters offer little
Temptation to garden  pests
And strapping thistles seem to stand guard.
Is the balance between my will
Over the garden and its desire
To overflow and bloom beyond me,
Now achieved yet unwanted?
Yes…I prefer the lushness that comes
After the rains, with an untamed riot
Of color and green, the celebration
That happens on its own, heedless
Of my wishes; yet I revel in it
Every time it wins
And will wait a year
For this to emerge again.

The concrete drum
beats two steps;
their sound signals
dear freedom

The cricket hum
drowns the day
and instills a
tranquil numb

The bare breeze
strums leaves and all
and breaks the heat
in welcome

The tonic sum
a blessed song;
allowing one
to triumph

At 3 am,
In a small city
Where the stars barely shine
And the darkness is silent,
You can hear hidden crickets
And feel the ghosts of forgotten memories.
They call it the witching hour,
But I call it
The hour of inspiration.
Because it's at 3 am,
That I write my best poems.
But it's also the only time,
That I let the tears fall
And I allow myself to think
Of hugs from winter,
Conversations with the breeze,
And the kisses from the stars.

midst of a dead night
the crickets play the music
the frogs won't hear under the sun

Playing the waiting game
Each one dancing around the other
Uncertainty building like a storm cloud with each passing
Second
Minute
Moment
Is this real?
Was this whole thing a child's game
Cat and mouse?
Crickets sing their song to the moon
Cars pass
The empty parking lot bathes in street lamp glow
What happens now?