The Year of the Cicada

Oddly enough, this is not my first poem about cicadas.

The Year of the Cicada

by Suzanne DeWitt Hall

July 7, 2021

 

 

I’ve heard the cicadas will be many this year

not heard the way we hear

the waxing, waning waves of sound

pulsing from their tymbals

to fill the dusk.

Not that,

but heard through the pulse of data

across wires and air

bearing news from one being to the next

in cicada-like proclamation:

“Look at me! Judge me worthy! I am here!”

 

I’ve heard their presence has been a plague

encouraging exodus.

They’ve not yet begun to thrum

where we live, also waiting

buried in the earth

hungering to be born

to stretch and groan

escaping the confines of this present exoskeleton

clawing into tender freedom

flying away

to fill the world with the pulse of our own song

and leaving the dead shell

of these former selves

behind.