How little we know

the litany of sweltering days

to sit out in the yard 

under the shade of the avocado tree

drink freshly squeezed lemonade

wait for the neighboring insects to

cry out the terms of rain.

now we go through soultry,

nameless seasons unaware of 

closure, we search the sky for

clouds only a few of us can name.

nothing would make us happier

than the song of cicadas.

NaPoWriMo Day 9 - prompt by Christina Thatcher