A CICADA SHELL
Poised in place on a drooping oak leaf
to launch again the insect it once enclosed,
the molt stands as a monument
to its seventeen years underground
waiting for a single season in the wind
 
The creature it was has flown
 
The ghost cannot hear the rhythms
of its autumn refrain,
nor flee the ferocity of wasps
in pursuit of its buzzing flesh
 
A soldier back from a no-count war
stares down at this crisp brown form
and remembers the songs he sang
on his way to see Tina before
her mother came home from work