Do Dead Poets Write; I Believe They Do

As I sit on a bench made of hard stone. My poet lies by my side. Underneath a tree is where I sit. Underneath a tree is where he lies. Silently, he never makes a sound. The birds, the wind in the trees, and the cicadas ruminate on the breeze. Cicadas bellow life’s questions loudly into the air, you can hear them everywhere. They seem to go unanswered. The cicadas seem angrier, louder, as the day moves on. The trees sway with unfazed dazes upon their faces. They go, to and fro, sometimes fast, sometimes slow, and seem to unwind with ease, as pretty as you please.

Unbothered,

unscathed,

unaffected,

disconnected,

or just putting on a show as they bend and bow. No one would even know if I hadn’t seen it for myself, as I sit and write with my poet in the ground.

Written by Gina Adams

Sunday, May 26, 2024