Poetry by Brian C. Billings
While walking down the twilit road
that flows along my neighborhood,
I cast aside my daily load
and thought of comfort as I could
until a limping insect crossed
upon my way. So small. So lost.
It labored toward a leeward hedge
along an inconsistent line
that ended in the rounded edge
where bricking holds a crossing sign.
Six legs marched forth to meet the goal,
their push propelled by sturdy soul.
A line of molt had split the shell.
Two claws were badly worn and bent.
The bulbous head bobbed in a spell
while on the creature weakly went.
I felt a stir of comradeship
as I beheld this forlorn trip.
Too often have I dwelled these days
on thorny word and bitter thought
and given reign to black malaise
convinced depression was my lot.
Cicada nymph, your simple drive
reminds me how to be alive.
Brian C. Billings is a professor of drama and English at Texas A&M University-Texarkana. His work has appeared in such journals as Ancient Paths, Antietam Review, Confrontation, Evening Street Review, Glacial Hills Review, and Poems and Plays. Publishers for his scripts include Eldridge Publishing and Heuer Publishing.
