When Cicadas Say Good Night

When I was little,
growing like south Texas weeds,
cicadas sang at dusk

I loved them heralding darkened oncoming skies

Their voices as constant
as summer’s clinging dew

Mournful, stoic,

a eulogy to light's end

Their songs persisted in my existence

Yet their nighttime mutterings,

in between the flutterings spelling good night,
sounded like apologies

For taking away the day, maybe?
I never knew
Only that their lamentations
haunted me long after childhood left

As if each iridescent wing,

every jointed leg and reflecting eye,
was deeply, irrevocably ashamed

Being so young,

I never understood their music-
but all I hear now is you in cicada’s song

I am so sorry, mo chroi, they sing

After being apart
for as long as we were ever each other's,
I am sorry

Not for leaving,
but the manner in which I left

There is so much inside a goodbye,
and now, being older,
honoring our ending should have come first

Paused in my heart for a moment
where each could lament,
each would acknowledge...
and what?
Shake hands, walk away better?

As if either is obligated to one another now,
because neither of us are

There is only this

You are the music that begins at dusk,
and when cicadas say good night,
I understand their songs