Sometimes I feel
like a cicada
who couldn’t count,
all those seasons
underground,
burrowed in the sweet
dark earth, my
small nymph self
growing and molting into
a briefly beautiful thing for
13 years, or 17, only
to emerge and ascend
too early, too late,
before or after
the appointed time,
counting only to one,
a solitary imago singing,
unbuckling its tymbals
into the void I thought
you would occupy.
Meditatio Ephemera 
For what it’s worth, this sounds very like some journal years 20+ years back … reading this reminds me how startling it was to encounter “the missed” and find tgether that we’d only been delayed till we were both ready!
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Timing is sometimes not a one-shot deal. 🙂 Thanks for reading, Jazz.
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I find this both funny and sad at the same time, Cate. ‘Timing is everything’ as they say, and when we get it wrong, doing the best we can by ourselves is what makes our life what it is. -Russ
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Just so, Russ. Although as humans we always tend to want different than we have, simultaneously funny and sad is not a bad way for a poem — or life — to be. 🙂 Thanks for reading, my friend.
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