Timed Love Poem by Elliott Rosenberg

A startled cicada harrows beneath the weaving grass writing a colloquy of testament,
For she is rushed,
Time mars her thriftiness,
A quintessential forager,
marked by the matronymic brood of her ancestors.

It is along these fields of divergence, where sorrows eclipse a yearning sun,
That chaff sprouts,
And one begins to listen,
To the epileptic droning of song,
Emanating from her timbals of love.

A skillful mimicry of eirenic bouts,
Camouflage her synchronistic paradigm,
Gently gestated over thirteen years,
In cavernous burrows of Solomon's house.

With cedar wood of Lebanon,
Ten thousand men strong,
A melodious doxology does her fragrance spread,
Natal to a cluster of dittany.

It was during Jung's milieu,
That Dionysus fermented the verse,
While Apollo stood witness,
Fluttering upon the hill.

Softly asks the cicada,
as she frolics about her sanctum,
plucking a harpsichord of divination,
As nightfall brings silky dew.

Where have all the leaves gone?
What has mankind done?
On deaf ears have I sung?
Pled allegiance to a darkened tongue?

As the hour points past noon,
She realizes there is a moon,
A grasshopper smiles down,
Dressed in a white gown.

Are you god she asks?
The mighty spirit of the guttered stars,
Sequential to all existentialism,
Manifesting a frenzy delirium.

Tumultuously thumping the acacia ground,
Plagued with fierce green-red eyes,
She drums louder than the boy of Shiloh,
Leading her swarm towards the vanguard of enlightenment.

Erstwhile whirring her wings,
She opens her ovipositor laden with honey,
Injecting life to furrowy trees,
Where nymphs propagate godliness.

Forthwith does the pendulum stop,
Glittering spores in the bosky sky,
Magically enacting an acrobats stance,
She hovers above for a last dance.

Time has come for her to rest,
To fold her wings and say adios,
Love portrays on her audience,
Their countenance unabridged.