The sun isn’t hot enough, the wind isn’t
quite so rare, nor so chilling
as to stir the sleeping spirit within me and
force my hand to write again.
The day grows colder as clouds begin to
cover the sky, and darkness falls
slowly with the dying of the light.
Twilight. A perfect time to
go out in search of that one thing
that seems so very elusive to me –
As I step outside, there’s a
quiet song in the air,
the wind plays through my hair,
and I am stuck here, listening,
but more that listening.
I am hearing a sound that I
have heard my whole life,
The cricket and I have a moment
of rare eye contact,
and the light violin-chiming
silences, for a second,
but with a green shake of wings,
the song begins again,
this soloist – the braver of the two of us.
He makes his mark on the world
with so little as this,
this quiet anthem to the continuation of time,
whereas I have been afraid
to let myself be heard;
teach me, little cricket, and lend me
your voice. Give me the courage to speak
as simply as you do, the power
to make myself heard.
And I stand as the little legs
tense, and with a flutter of brown-green wings,
he is gone in the night, and I turn
around, and go back inside.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem