J.P. Dancing Bear-I

Gacela of Cicada

 

The soul is satisfied to stay in its dark house

of dirt, roots and sleep-twitches for promised

wings, promised air, the belief in sunlight.

 

What does the soul know of winter snow?

It is a low noise, a soft thrum from the overworld,

an interruption from worshipping the Oak.

 

When the red gem eyes have emerged,

who treasures the cicada shell?  Its musk

and its reek of a previous, cloistered life?

 

Old Satan, conveyer of pesticides, protecting

your apple trees while Eve makes a life out of mud—

how will you tempt without the rhythmic music?

 

The old oaks are frenetic with the noise of love,

the bustle of bodies rubbing under a ruby moon.

This is how the belief in a bipolar God is born.

 

The rich black soil is full of the music

—enough for the seventeen silent years—

the cicadas have taken from the trees.