The white and the blue of the sky inverse
to burst the dazzling electric dream clouds
lightning ice behind closed eyes
God, it’s bright out here.
The crickets heat the rhythm,
The cicadas treble a clock maker’s cry;
winging the secret wheel of the world,
they trill a tambourine,
trrranga, rrranga, thrrraaanngaaaaaaaaaa
trrranga, rrranga, thrrraaanngaaaaaaaaaa.
until they unzip the sun from itself;
cut out each triangle,
and tuck it into the sky
Cicada, unearthly soldier,
you command the trees dance--
the leaves shudder
flinging firelights back to the sun.
You sing the green ground
into crisp paper grass.
At your cry, the heat
rolls from the ringing globe,
bakes the brown earth to
a fine aled scent
Cicada, I will roll in
your world of torn papers
brown, green, gold, blue, white,
until all my dry thoughts are lost
like butterfly wings against wind.
As long as I hear your song,
I know I am still here
where I am home.
July Blue, an excerpt from my novel (2008):
Becky who had lived in the middle of Kansas city in a penthouse apartment her whole life, next to the art museum, thought that the ringing zanga, thranga, ranggggaaaa was the sound of the trees' leaves made in August, swinging and twisting on the breezes. Of course, she hadn’t said anything about it, which saved her the embarrassment when she overhead other campers talking about the noise the cicadas made.
The leaves never stopped moving--the light was always changing, pushing, casting green shadows on the grown or reflecting flecks of gold like a jungle of fairie lights. The light flickered in the trees all day, though no one else mentioned them. To Becky, the sky was so large, its reached down to the far horizon making dreams seem bigger and more possible. Here at Camp Woodland, with the wind playing with her hair, she felt powerful and alive.