Alyssa Ferguson

Photo by Bill Nino on Unsplash

I met a cicada the other day.
It was sitting on the wall of my garage.
Cicadas aren’t seen in my neighborhood —
It is not the sort of weather for them here.

I looked in its eyes, and was taken back
To forgotten bits of memory: of heat,
Of the warm evenings of childhood in the east,
Of days in the shade, and the sweat of night,

And cicada skins all clinging to the trees.
But back in myself, in my cold northwest,
Inscrutable eyes looking back at me,
I was glad to be away, to have escaped.

Cicadas of memory live too long.
After casting off a ghost like a bad dream,
To earth, to the soil of the mind they dig,
To emerge, in a few years, in a new skin.

--

--

Photo by Omid Armin on Unsplash

The difference of green to green
is like the difference of blue to blue:
unseen, but true.
The greenness of my green is seen
by you as greenness of a different hue.
As blue, to me
Is seen to be a different blue,
like green, by you.
Now green can be a shade of blue,
as some perceptions of the hue
are said to see. And we
may grant in all respects
the candor of a seer’s view
that blue is but a shade of green
that he rejects as blue.
And so that unbemuddled shade
of green or blue that separates our counsels still
evades our view.
For all of that, no argument
can change the greenness of my green,
the blueness of your blue.

--

--

Photo by Sharon McCutcheon on Unsplash

I am living my dream.
I just now realized it,
looking down at my legs,
that emerge, naked, below
the hem of my thigh-length dress.
It is very comfortable,
this dress,
and becoming, too, whether
I sit or stand.

Once I dreamed of sitting thus,
in a dress. But in my dream
was never contentment,
never the good ease that comes
with knowledge of the rightness
of one's place.
— It comes now. —
It is not the dress,
nor my seat, nor naked legs.
It is belonging, and consistency
with nature, that give me ease.
What miracle, that I should find,
so late in life,
the meaning and solution of my pain.

--

--

Alyssa Ferguson

Alyssa Ferguson

Born and raised in a literary household, I write to clarify my own questions.