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
a single cicada’s cry
sinking into stone
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.
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
Before I was married, someone told me
the thief was children. The news today
told me it was definitely my smartphone.
People have had children and distractions forever.
We manage to write poems on phones.
Flowers on the tomato plants, graduations, proms,
projects added to my To Do list,
candlelight dinner outside, back at the beach,
the smell of barbecues, bare feet, sandals,
reading, falling asleep, dreaming about an island.