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.