a flush of life blood
we blush crimson but briefly
and fall to the earth

August Nocturne

There is a certain song
a crescendo peaking
sung by the crickets and katydids
in waning summer, in August
that sounds like a lullaby
but the listeners know it to be
the climax
of a dirge.

They have matured, become old,
and are proclaiming
with all their hearts
the end of the cycle, and
pleading for partnership
permission
parsimony
to begin another.

From their perches in foliage
they watch day by day
the yellowing
the falling
the fading
but sing
in mutual denial
that the blackest of frosts
is coming.

They believe.
They believe in their role
in their miniscule portion
of a cycle larger than themselves
requiring births
requiring rituals
requiring unions
and requiring deaths.
And aside from this
there is eating
and the singing,
and that is all there is.
It is all that is.

We the listeners
the lovers
know it
and recognize its temporal disguise,
having intimacy with secrets and powers
of that which you cannot keep.
Essence of a moment,
repeated periodically
layered with nostalgia
but meaning the same
intangible
uncapturable
fleeting
and eternal.

frequent thunderstorms
unsettled weather patterns
foreshadowed seasons

My Bodhi

Appears in Festival of the Trees #32.