Cicada thrum in a tidal pull, carried towards me atop the verdant maples,
the ache of want born from a singular caress of the rare July breeze,
the low morning light still radiating gold through the humid haze,
where dragonfly messages are scrawled in contrails of iridescence,
I let the serenity of the moment lull my eyes shut,
a smile of morning glory to bloom upon my face
E. A. O'Connell. July 7, 2021
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