Collectors

Buff shells cling to the pin-oak
outside my window; a live cicada
embraces a pliable new leaf. Elsewhere,
armies of husks ascend maple, wisteria,
record the journey towards light,
clawed feet unmoved by spring gales.
Children come to collect them with huge bags.
"Leave some for me,' I say, already
a hoarder of the split-backed skins
with goggle eyes. A fallen cicada
stirs as I stroke its pleated belly,
crinkly wings turning awry; then stiffens,
lopsided, into an image of itself,
an amber and black brightness.