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.