When I was younger I lived in an area
Where the cicadas sang loudly and vibrantly
The trees seemed to vibrate and buzz during the summer,
And I missed that in the cold months
It felt like the trees were more alive than usual
The trees could talk and sing and dance just like me
I had friends in those trees
I remember the first time i saw a cicada up close
It had landed in my hair and my mother told me
That my hair probably looked like a tree,
Brown with it’s natural streaks and highlights
I gently removed it from my hair
And when i met its eyes mere inches away from my own
I screamed
It took a while for me to trust cicadas after that
The trees no longer seemed to dance, they seemed to quiver
They didn’t sing songs of the summer, they screamed
I understood the cicadas, then
Sick of themselves, sick of their own skin
They crawled out
What a reason to celebrate
What a reason to sing
To be able to crawl out of your skin and leave it behind
I could not fault them for their joy
For I would be singing until my lungs were tired
And my throat was raw
And I could not project my notes any longer
I too, would sing with the cicadas