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.


© by Michael Escoubas.
Used with the author's permission.