Welcome to the first step on my new Friday journey, friends, where in memory of Galen Hayes and better times, I will post a 55 word poem each Friday, and respond with unabashed delight to anyone who chooses to join me. To do so, just leave a link in the comments section to indicate where you have written, or if you prefer, leave the entire piece itself. I want to stress that this is all for writing support and camaraderie, and there's never a need to make anything about it obligatory--do as much or as little as feels good to you. (To read more on this endeavor, go here.)
Comment moderation is still on, and no insincerity, ego-trips or trolls will be allowed to mar our fun.
So, without further ado, my 55:
Cricket
The musical cricket
who lives in my walls
vigils with me these dry dead nights
when sleep's a fantasy
and the fountain-moon
no longer wells.
He plays his body,
as mine once was played,
leg on fiddle leg,
to break the night with beauty
to remind the blind mind
sweetness
still hides in the
dark.
~September 2017
Image: Wheat, Stone and Cricket, 1976, © Ding Yanyong Fair use.
