Just lately

this persistent rise and fall

of nonexistent cicada chorus

 ringing in my ears

recalls how childhood evenings fell

 

how the sun abruptly dropped

below Old Farm Hill’s crest

an exhausted orange ball

so done with day

how liliaceous morning skies

turned uncontrollably indigo

and like some small Neanderthal

I feared the sun would not return

 

how I put away playthings

and reluctant took

the once bright path

that downhill now

turned ominous and dark

deep with gathered shadows

mysterious with owls

and flap of wings invisible

heavy with howl

of Papa’s old hunting dog

and fearsome hidden things

how with silver-fingered moon

insistent on my shoulders

I unwilling left

always wanting more

and feared the night and nothingness

of sleep

 

then once I cleared the crest

 and started down

how the many-candled window

 of Mama’s house

grew bright against the dark

how fireflies lifted

tiny, ineffective lanterns

toward the stars

as ebb and rise of cicada

 sang me home.