Hidden in rose bushes-
a cricket cries
with trembling legs,
lamenting to a sickle moon
in that riotous, wobbling,
reedy tune
that swells
high meadowlands.
Though this borough is named
Bloomingdale,
it’s been reduced to
strips of green-
all manicured and trodden
between row homes and
pot-holed streets.
Leaving Bloomingdale
stark chirpless,
save for this
cricket’s cry.
So I pause beside
the rose bushes
and hum
a brief
reply.
pm poetry 