By Sandy Anderson

The crickets fill the night with chirrups.

If I went outside and looked, parted

the grass, I would not even find

one of them. 

My mother said it was sinful

to pierce ears, forbid me

the circle of bare earth

where the tree drips

as it melts, the drops of water

like jewels in the spring sun.

She always believed

I’d return to church.

I fondle the stones

in my ears, a gift from her

years after my ears

committed the sin

of dangling words in air,

remember the black

covered hymnals

as I listen to the refrain

of crickets filling the night.