For the dverse prompt.
In and out the grass stalks, the breeze.
It carries, like a high tide, a song,
the hissing, relentless cicada song.
Among the flaccid leaves, the light
slops and slips like melted butter,
drips to the insect song of rasping wings.
In and out of my hands, the times
we prattled, joked and argued,
filling the blue and wanton air with words.
In and out, the breath, lips flutter,
dry as cicada wings,
arid as the trampled wastes of time,
and you let the silence grow.