Summer, and Cicadas

for Paul Summer, and the cicadas have gone mad, singing out their ending lives with the deafening din of a train that envisions the wreck. I, in my wintering time have more enduring songs to sing in this "sad, old world," as my grandmother would say, walking in her farmhouse flower garden, bearing the sorrow of a husband, and a cherished daughter, gone too sudden and, too soon. In the present place of peace and comfort I have somehow, against all odds, managed to create, a former life greets guests to an island retreat: "Welcome to the Middle Ages" say candelabra, hundred-year-old chairs and medieval tapestries, better hung in some hushed and darkened cathedral There's no wicker here, just a retro flicker from another era. My "Pro Clean" guy, accustomed to this paradox, has laundered carpet chosen feckless white, replaced, now, with sensible green, gleaming clean from his expert efforts. He's come again--"The usual?" he asks, eyes holding mine a heartbeat too long. He's two years divorced from a young wife who walked, a mother who deplored dates with an older woman. How Cool!, thought I, and he's met with my inquire, "Seeing her yet?" No, the reply, as he turns on his heel, "But we got along..." End of story? No, not quite. Slow fade to a question made: "Are you looking for a date? I'm charmed by confidence, his bold audacity, the final tenacity when he heads for his truck, "If you change your mind, give me a call." But, "MAY I?" Happy, Sappy!, My end of the seesaw's weighty; he's forty, I'm eighty. Still in the game? More or less, I guess, but where does it end? I'll tell you, my friend: "Red Rover, Red Rover," it's when no one comes over.