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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Damselfly

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.

Pollen

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.

 

pollen

 

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.