T H E    P O E T R Y    O F    D I S T A N C E    R U N N I N G
p o e m s    b y    b r i a n    p o w e r s

Cicadas

The rapid ratcheting
seems everywhere above me, lacing
the treetops into a single wordless voice.
Along the lakeshore path where I run,
the dog-day cicadas in the high branches
pulse like the sputtering sprinklers
on the lawns back home.
I like this dirt road because
it’s easy on my knees, because
I’m far from the voices
that would untie me from myself
and have me follow.
I like these trees that shade me,
they seem well-knit
with all the things around them––
the moss, the ants, birds
I can and cannot name,
the pebbles that stick in my shoes.
Maybe the cicadas look with pleasure, as I do, up
into the green, sunlit leaves.
Maybe their calling begins in the blood
that is always threading
through their beautiful bodies.

© 2001 by Brian Powers

Home  |  Off the Track  |  Author  |  Links  |  Contact