Each late summer the crickets and grasshoppers really get to me, ever since 2011 when my mother died. I finally wrote about it yesterday on the bike trail.
Crickets and Grasshoppers
In August crickets and grasshoppers
warn the end is near
rubbing their legs together
like squeaky wheels rolling in rhythm
reminding us how far we’ve traveled
in this season of sun
deep red tomatoes
and tasseled corn.
Then, cicadas punctuate the afternoon
with their pierced buzz of late summer.
And so it was the year
my mother was hanging on
in her last season
too weak to talk.
I asked if she wanted to go outside
in her bed, she nodded yes.
I wheeled her into the Hospice Garden.
Together, we listened.
Crickets clicking, grasshoppers pulsing,
and a loud, metallic cicada with its
arrow of sound.
Every summer when crickets
and grasshoppers voice what’s ahead
I think of this day, crickets clicking
grasshoppers seesawing their squeaky wheels
reminding us of the journey.
I did a major edit on this poem: 08-20-2022. How’s this. New title too.
In August
crickets and grasshoppers
warn the end is near
rubbing legs and wings together.
Whirring rasp, insistent chirps
remind us how far we’ve traveled
in this season of sun, deep red tomatoes,
and tasseled corn.
Then, cicadas punctuate the afternoon,
a piercing buzz of late summer.
And so it was the year
my mother was hanging on
in her last season, too weak to talk.
I asked if she wanted to go outside
in her bed, she nodded yes.
I wheeled her into the Hospice Garden.
Together, we listened –
crickets click-clicking, grasshoppers whirring,
cicadas with their arrow of sound
voicing what’s ahead,
reminding us of the journey.
Another new title: is it too long? (I really like the Louder than a Lawnmower, I read that while researching) The bed is “key” (she could no onger sit up) so I made it ”hospital bed” and put the nodding yes on its own line. (good suggestion!)
Louder than a Lawnmower, Cicadas Can Reach 100 decibels
Crickets and grasshoppers
warn the end is near
rubbing legs and wings together.
Whirring rasp, insistent chirps
remind us how far we’ve traveled
in this season of sun, deep red tomatoes,
and tasseled corn.
Then, cicadas punctuate the afternoon,
a piercing buzz of late summer,
And so it was the year
my mother was hanging on
in her last season, too weak to talk.
I asked if she wanted to go
outside in her hospital bed,
she nodded yes.
I wheeled her into the hospice garden.
Together, we listened –
crickets click-clicking, grasshoppers whirring,
cicadas with their arrow of sound
voicing what’s ahead
reminding us of the journey.