the Fall.

I wrote a love song
to cicadas once
on the wings of an airplane
let the clouds take my wishes
and swallowed my breath
kept it hidden
in ink covered sheets
letting them drown
in serenity.

In the quiet down, I recovered
the leftover footprints
blown across continents
sand trapped glassware
carrying imprints
in William Sonoma shells
I can hear the echoes
of our tell tale hearts

“I love you. I miss you.
I will never forget you.
A promise — the kind that blows
gently rustling leaves, scraping fall
over rooftops, into gutters

Pacific wind that holds
mirages of our images
hand in hand, building sandcastles
with white picket fences. A little boy
and girl, whispering,
secrets hidden in
the Morse code of cicada wings
as they serenade Summer into fall,
fall into Winter. Wind blown sheets,
pillow forts and pillow talks

Future scented nostalgia.
Honey suckle candles,
Lavender kisses
and front porch swings.
Our brownstone conversations
step-swaying to cicada hums
under darkening skies
in shades of romance, blossoming,
the fall leaves.

Every love song sounds the same
when dulled by the roar of the airplane.

The endless clouds, the blanket silence
bridging past to future
future to infinity.
 Endless right nows
in the infinite skies
that stretched serenity

can feel inconsequential.


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