Cicadas
by Michael Escoubas

When I spotted you,
perchance,
advancing on a lilac branch,
I immediately called my
Grandsons, aged 10 and 7.

I wanted them to see
the intricate design of your
cellophane wings,
two pairs of them, and your five eyes,
I let the boys stare in wonderment.

Your high-pitched summer song,
sung on long August nights,
is a violin’s sweet bow
calling for romance …
your mate is on her way.

Thank you brave cicada
for showing me a perfect metaphor
of life. I vow to sing my song,
until, like you, I’ve lived my life in full,
and without regret, leave nothing but the shell.

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