I walk the steps
and turn my head.
Listen.
The cicadas,
sitting on the waves.
Mistaking me for light.
But I only walk.
A fresh breeze
with every step.
Left foot,
right foot.
Making my way
through the steep cliffs.
To the loosened ink,
coffee and books.
How is your life, I asked?
In unison, the cicadas replied.
“We lifted it,
and took it outside”
A Wandering Poet 