Red Dream

Cicadas,
shut down your machines,
a storm is nearing

it concerns
the cedars in a back garden
who sway and moan
beseeching the lightning
to strike them
imploring the rain to cleanse them
of all wrongdoing
to make every green needled leaf
shiny and blameless

cicadas,
silence your instruments
usher in the storm
so that all in your realm
may be put right:
dripping and clean
ready for new life,
still and luminous
fragrant with purpose;
let the trees breathe freely

soon in the gashed sky,
clouds soft as cotton swabs
will staunch bright wounds
and beckon you to begin again
your song of incisions