When I think all is perfect, time pressed neatly into boxes
ready to open at precise moments, I fall away. I turn from

the necessary. I balk, my spirit rears. I turn away. I slide open
the window to mourn honeyed summer nights not so long ago

under midnight skies. I hear their cricket song, the return.
It is time, they remind me, to move on. Summer was a delicacy,

light and luscious. Verdant life burst, overflowed like corseted
concubines adorned for courtly rituals. This night cricket

choruses begin, announce the fledgling season ever so gently.
A nudge to release the past, make plans anew.