The first time I heard them, there
were only a few, but the nights
had been silent, long, cold,
and their voices rose like hope
from the woods, making
my heart ache and sing.
Soon, the chorus swelled to tens
of thousands, a chaotic rapture,
myriad silver threads
embroidering thin, blue evenings
with a complicated pattern.
When I learned that, here,
neither crickets nor fireflies
would glaze the darkness with
familiar summer sweetness,
my ribcage throbbed, bruised
by longing and regret.
Still, the ache lingers (growing
sharp if I touch that spot,
just so); but the worst of it
has passed, eased
by the choir of countless, tiny
to whose voices I opened
my windows, despite
the seeping chill, and
by the heart's willingness to rest
for a few beats--pressed close against nature's breast--
and be soothed by
lullabies ancient and familiar.
(c) 2014, by Hannah Six