The Cricket’s Moon

A cricket croaks out a lonely tune

on a bitter summer morning

  reminding me that in his vain pursuit

  he is alone on an otherwise pleasing day.

 

In his call I think of a friend and of myself—

desires for the days ahead that I realize

  to be foolish enough to ponder

  fully aware lust’s vehicle always moves.

 

He shouts to the sky the same as the moon

during its unusual and sensual time spent

  visible on a clear morning, making one

  wonder if it’s where it’s supposed to be.

 

The outlined globe of sand calls back

with heated words of love

  and I must warn the changing of the tides

  not to be impatient.

 

The sea that calls will be sailed in time,

for we are now on a trail through the mountains

  the same as she, making way with barriers

  that we hope not to leave our youth to die.

 

Wherever it may be, in the clouds,

day or night, we share the moon

  that moves and grows large like Earth’s seed

  and guides us always in the end together.   

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