Kaylaa Randomly Tells me to Write about Cicadas
the familiar sounds of summer
ricocheting sparks and the moon
smokes flow through the corn husks fields
and the shade swish flow through the wind
vibrates in the wings and the hum
busy bee of the thrum diddy thrum of the waves
and the love and the heat.
Yet of all the things to focus on
it perseveres the song like shears
shaving off the lows of words- her cicadas tongue
prehistoric, gone, salvaged by the strung of old tunes.
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