Still I hear the cicadas,
blurring the edge of day
into the cool of night
under white-thorned stars.
In the pinewood-scented room
echo insistent, distant choirs
from the olive groves,
under a shrunken moon.
How they reverberate -
frequency I associate
with heat of antipodean summers,
flooding with unseen waves
all the seasons of youth,
phrase upon phrase.