Soaring

Last night I dreamt of a cicada
overturned on folded wings, 
no movement, near death.

He’d waited seventeen years to come out
of his shell, given four weeks
to sing.

I sensed him asking for help so I bent down,
pursed and parted my lips, blew
into him soundlessly.

He shivered then flipped, 
twitched his legs, took flight, 
my story

soaring with his on translucent wings. 

~~
© Paula Martin 2018
July 08, 2018