and held it in the round container of my hands
it would leave a smudge of powder,
white, pink or bluish-gray.
I used to go to sleep to a symphony of insects.
They tuned up as the sun was setting.
The sound was orchestral in scope
increasing and deepening
until it felt like I was being rocked to sleep
by waves of sound.
Where did they all go?
Some people call them pests.
But oh, how I cherish those memories
of being rocked to sleep
by the music of pests.
(Article changed on July 31, 2017 at 03:01)