Cicada

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