Seventeen Year Cicadas: 2004
We can’t avoid them when they come
A plague, some say
of ugly bugs and deafening noise.
They dive-bomb on our picnics, die
On patios and walks
in piles of crunching wings.
Their fleeting lives remind us of the fleetingness of ours.
But as for me, I love their treetop wedding song
They harmonize and whistle: Wowwowwowwowwow
I love to see their blunderbussy bodies whirligig
on lacy wings, like fledgling angels practicing for heaven
They celebrate their lives in sussurating song,
. Breeding and dying, they promise a return
Mysterious, predictable, in seventeen years.
Who knows where I will be, or on what side of life
the next time they are here.
I’m glad I have not missed them this time.