Perfect Things

Have they gone, this summer’s cicadas, unnoticed by me

after the pact I made to note each day their noisy presence

so that I would know, in the end, the last time I heard them sing?

Folly on my part I suppose as, truly, do I remember (no)

the last kiss of the lover who one day to shock and chagrin

called the whole thing off, the unimagined last words spoken

by that distant friend now passed on, the final toothy grin flashed

by the little white dog I dearly loved, the last time my

chubby toddler spoke with his sweet little boy impediment,

the last time his brother’s adolescent voice cracked

before it went forever deeply male?

Even aiming to know and hold them close,

I’ve lost those perfect things even as they passed.