the lonely cricket
scrapes
silent fabrics of the night
from my window.
sun bleeds
into the broken horizon.
wounded night
retreats
into the dark corners of my room.
morning sifts like a sand dune
from the horizon of darkness
into the horizon of light.
the new day invades
my blood stream
tender vibration
dips and swells
through the hollowness
of my vocal cord.
morning rains
with words
from my fingertips.
When a cricket sings, he is calling, courting a mate. A companion to share it's lonely existence. Too often, the cricket's calls go unanswered. How many of us are like the cricket, singing long into the night...songs that no one hears?
ReplyDeleteWe sing love at the times when we are lonely. When we have mate we are silent. Perhaps the song is love, perhaps mate is secondary....
ReplyDelete