NovPoWriMo 22

The Christmas cicada
stands sentinel in
the still green grass

illuminated by memory
of its billion relations
succumbing to summer’s

blinding white noise
heat of seventeen years
subterranean gestation

in the bleak silent night
red eyes loom distant
crunch of fallen leaves

a proper bed underneath
meanwhile a child
running behind us

seeking to see all the lights
might overtake us in fact
suddenly I hope so