Cicada Moon

Late summer, the air soft like a tangible
thing you could hold in the cup of your hand.
No matter what the day brought, you said,
there was always that perfect moment of rose
and blues, that golden last claim of the setting sun.
A sweet chill plumed the edges of wind stirring
through the thick darkness of trees, that old
conversation of coming and going. We were
brushstrokes on the canvas of that moment. After
you left, I listened to the whirring rise and fall
of cicadas outside the windows, the night a milky
sheet thrown across the bed. Above the speaking
trees, the sky was a saucer on which the night
balanced, and the moon was a small chip
of porcelain, above my head, above my sleep.


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