Cycle of the Cicada
She heard them before she saw them –
a high-pitched whirring sound, like a herd
of tiny lawn mowers. The nearby woods were the
scene of this emerging miracle, something only seen
every 17 years. Insects, crawling out of the ground,
shedding their outer shells to become winged creatures
with red eyes, like monsters in some scary book, read by
flashlight under the covers – the stuff of nightmares.
Amid the cacophony of their short lives, she prayed the
old woods would still be standing as silent witness
to the next cycle of the cicadas.
Day 25 of Poem a Day
https://www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/2024-april-pad-challenge-day-25
rhymeswithbug 