Sometimes
the crickets cry
out in hopes of
summer's return.
They fiercely scrape friction
into the smoldering cells that
carry them, longing for the
season as it fades.
Some nights
the sun sets red,
slicing into the eyes of those
brave souls who search
for more than their
hearts can carry
to tighten their fists around
as their palms are set ablaze.
Some days,
the songbirds sing in
ballads, lamenting, aching
for yesterday's morning.
The yellowing of
the broad, layered leaves
can only hold whispers of
winter's wind.
Sometimes
the crickets scream
out and yearn for brighter
days gone by.
About the Creator
Adam Jackson
Adam Jackson is a twenty-something something or other, a freelance poet and journalist. He is on his way.
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