The Crickets' Autumn Song
By Don Iannone
Solitary crickets drone on
through the night's deepest hours
about fall's impending ascent.
They tell poignant epic-level stories,
which they will never quite finish,
leaving last lines for the winter sun
to write on fresh-fallen snow.
The crickets hypnotic chirping drowns out
the 12:07 am train, passing unnoticed,
except by the squealing rails, stretching
from one end of the night to the other.
Summer died suddenly, but gloriously,
like the fuzzy green caterpillar, who morphed
in one afternoon into a graceful butterfly.
The crickets just do what they do,
without being asked, or being rewarded.
For they sing in a voice heard by the turning leaves,
the fading grass, and swelling pumpkins,
who otherwise might miss their time.
When I was young, I was too busy
to hear the crickets sing.
But now autumn rises up in me,
and I ready for the winter sun
to once again write last lines
in the fresh-fallen snow.