Marilyn Humbert
Cicadas

Mum is there when cicadas surface
from cold earth into summer heat.
One, then more vibrate, pulse
a sustained love-note among brittle stalks.

With a rusty trowel she turns soil
her twig-arms stretch, pick plump ripe figs.
I hear the click and snap of shears,
see her kneel, pulling prickles and weeds.

She says this is sanctuary
when her heart races, tries to escape
the confines of rib and flesh
and breath comes in ragged scraps.

Though far away, I hold her hand as we walk
among a cicada chorus on the plains
where the wide night sky casts shadows.