A. E. Stallings Sabbatical He has been underground
These seven years, but he will not rise
The way the cicadas will,
Punctual and shrill,
Casting off the gold film from their eyes,
Raptured out of their translucent shells
To stun
The leaded windows of their wings with sun,
Their voices riding on the heat like swells,
A rattling of broken bells,
Their sudden silence giant as a sound.