Reading Basho, I Notice the Cicadas

The tympanal clicks in the hottest hours

counting out a song in another language.

One of mating, and not of love,

that I know well and repeat myself

in the five seven of this poem.

 


Two Haiku by Basho

Nothing in the cry
of cicadas suggests they
are about to die

Lonely silence,
a single cicada’s cry
sinking into stone

 

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Week 26

A heat wave week cresting and breaking

here so far away from an ocean

that would feel so cooling and yet

is warming every day and every year.

I feel mid-year changes within and without.

 

Volunteers

At the garden edges, the volunteer seedlings

grow on their own despite my human

weeding deliberations at order, symmetry and control.

Thankfully not reliably identical to their parents.

Volunteers try modestly to change the world.

 

Lychnis coronaria Rose Campion