The night insects began
to sing again last night.  

I remember.  

She said if I ever cry, 
I will flood the world again.  

Demeter in a blue pick-up,
follows the creek.
Eyes, Dublin blue, see beyond
summer sycamores
filled with singing cicadas.
She’s the last of the breed,
a heretic living at the foot of the cross,
hoping the cicada song
is true of resurrection.