Peeks Through Clouds

An effort to brighten darkness with gentle humor and loving truth... a desire to discern both love and truth more and more clearly when I gaze toward Glory... and a spirit-name, properly descriptive, unrequested but received, my own.

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Saturday, May 14, 2011

tin cicada

I imagine you whispering
into my nearly deaf left ear
something personal
meaningful
sweet
and your voice floating
warm
like cedar-sifted breeze
into the lair of the tin cicada
that never sleeps
where your whisper rustles
like a candy wrapper in church
leaving me no choice
but to turn
for the millionth time
and spoil the moment
with an earnestly interested
“what, hon?”
and you, like me,
being absolutely unable
to say that certain tender thing
in just that tender way
ever again.

And I know I put it there
dug the hole myself
with the quivering headers
of some thundering engine
planted the seed
of this constant swirling sizzle
there in my inner ear
with screaming guitars
in rainbow concert halls
fertilized and watered it
earning a paycheck
cleaning bearings
with an air hose
cultivated it
with a quick shotgun
in the pheasant field
and finally harvested
the inevitable result
with a deer rifle
in the autumn woods.

And now, whether
lying here in the dark
with you beside me
or sitting alone
waiting for a winter dawn,
I can hear this tin cicada
and pretend it's a summer evening
and we’re on the porch
and you’re whispering
warm 
like the cedar-sifted breeze.

1 Comments:

Anonymous Ken said...

Nice thought Karl, and beautifully expressed...but I don't believe you were the object of their conversations...but I liked it anyway.

8:12 AM  

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