New Poem

Grace of Consequence

One cicada, twitching, dying, freezing on September ground
Back-trapped and splayed, exposed, yet breathing clicking, incoherent sounds

His outer crust was flake and air; his wings had shriveled, frayed and torn
I nearly passed him by, unblinking, exposing where my crust is worn

Did I, by stopping, noting, naming, channel grace of consequence
or is such spirit lost on those devoid of common, living sense?

Did Creation shudder, quicken, for a moment hold her breath
or laugh at my unique concern for public, unregarded death?