And I will end with another spring cricket poem
because I think the spring cricket always
should get the last word.
There's an epigraph to the poem from the opera
Cendrillon, "Stay by the hearth, little cricket."
"Postlude"
You prefer me invisible, no more than a crisp salute far away
from your silks and firewood and woolens.
Out of sight, I'm merely an annoyance, one slim obstinate
wrinkle and night's deepening trance.
When sleep fails, you wish me shushed and back in my hole.
As usual, you're not listening.
Time stops only if you stop long enough to hear it passing.
This is my business.
I've got 10 weeks left to croon through.
What you hear is a lifetime of song.
Thank you.
[CLAPPING]