Jennifer

15

Cicadas Again

Summertime, the shine
of the polished pine stair

on the backs of my thighs,
and air conditioning, weary of
its constant whirs.

Down below the pots met with wood, and my
toes lingered before stepping

up and out and down , the next

ledge below is tiny, as they all are.
But the voices

drifting up from the den
like soft fog from a morning valley sifting

into my vacancy - a crude reminder of the day. My
hand
slid down the balustrade, causing eruptions of memory
dust to wiggle into my nails.:

the sound of their scratching
oblique, across

the mind-smoothed
surface of your face, harvesting what
they can, summer

is nearly over, and autumn
is the time for gathering. I never really

got the point, the summers gold and seasons

change. A clock keeps going with batteries. I was
supposed to be a battery--an automated system.
To tick on and around, with the same blank face.

Same two fingers pointing defiantly at the time, I liked it.
Just like the mold that grows around I liked it.
The mold tells a tale

of what happens to memories that aren't aired out

And that's what I want to find out. The wooden stair edges
flickered beneath my toes then arch then heels. Sunny rectangles
shone thru the windows, today is like then, but

it is today.
The memory arrives. It becomes

now. The steady line of your voice joining
the chorus in the den, resounding across the
towns, brings summer.