into the sun.
It's melting, I think,
Anytime it could snap back
and bring me to a standstill.
No more running for me today.
A farmer has planted rows and rows
of tired trees.
Arching their backs they drag their leaves in the dust.
Waiting with heavy shopping
for the next bus somewhere else.
I don't blame them.
It's hot here after all
and the cicadas wail
in mourning all night long.
They're lost, I think,
the marsh must be a jungle to them.
I search out a clearing for them,
But the mess of green
is knotted tight.
It would take a lifetime to detangle.
Here and there the grass stands up-right,
Perhaps where someone's begun
to tease the blades free.
They've given up,
Put it to rest,
The follies of youth.
The cicadas know better.
They stay where they are and scream.
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