--for James Crenner
The last crickets are singing
A little song of synesthesia:
Leg on leg,
Their bodies
Cold as glass.
My dear friend “Sisi”
From Rutana, Finland
Told me once
The last crickets
Prepare a winter music.
Half sad, half
Clinging to heat
And we laughed
In her garden
Thinking of crickets
As Lutherans
In a sacristy.
How could a song of legs
Equal belief?
We knew and didn’t know
Wwalking in the tall grass
The Finns call “horse weed”—
A shaggy rough, purple
And bruised as twilight
We heard crickets from all sides
And my friend said:
“Crickets don’t know if sunlight
Is ever coming back,
That is what we call
The name of the tune…
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