My golden cicada,
you are the rare kind -- the nocturnal.
I am the standoffish cowslip creeper.
On a thick muddy night, you stumbled upon my paddle.
you whimpered of our differences;
an egg or a seed,
which one carries more life?
But you see,
we only got to run into each other
for it's summer;
for you are nocturnal;
for I smell of pleasure.
Molt, molt away on my spine.
break, break away from that corset.
no more a nymph,
my golden cicada.
if I were snapped by an early lady,
only to be braided into a short-lived wreath,
for her hustle,
for the market ----
I hope you find a place to rest,
before it gets cold and wet.