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
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,
soaring with his on translucent wings.
© Paula Martin 2018
July 08, 2018