Portrait of Self-Analysis

(1970)

In the darkness, in unfathomed depths, Silent, self-absorbed does the cicada lie Awaiting its brief moment to emerge, and whirr and die And so do I.

High on a thistle the gaudy swallowtail— The collector’s apogee—sits ready to take flight, Not to be caught; while on the week The wingless aphis, causative of blight Looks upward, like me, In self-scorn and delight.

All about me mate and whirr, taking delight In the brief moment that this their summer’s noon While I live along by reflected light In the midst of midnight an unnoticed moon Whose day has flown too soon, too soon.