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
This young lady in elegant blue sits
before me, wings demurely together.
Smaller than a flying dragon, but no
demoiselle en détresse, some Medieval chivalric code
dubs me this day her wandering knight-errant.
Blue light through blue glass. Lune bleue.
I close the window but the garden
scents and insect sounds still come through.
It is a humid, living jungle tonight.
I hope glass can hold it back.
The barn swallows coming out to eat
leaf bugs and lace wings trigger dusk.
The dry air filling with soft wings.
A reminder: life is not an equation
that can be balanced or ever solved.
covers cars, windows and every manmade surface
with no effect but annoyance and tears.
Yellow green hard-coated to protect male gametes
on wind-loving journeys from stamen to pistil.
Bees and insects giddy with its abundance.
In reading about pollen, I discovered that some plants are known as anemophilous, which literally translates as “wind-loving” while other plants are entomophilous or “insect-loving.” So much love in this pollen-filled air today.