Crickets

I still hear the crickets chirping
in unison,
theirs the voice of God more than
the voice of God,
songs all the way up some hill
where the tents stood like booths
for a sacred calling,
and I do not know if I belong still
among such spaces
where the cicadas whispered
love,
as they shed their past lives –
or if my making it of love
was a wanton lie,
like so many others I first told myself
to believe
enough to tell till Kingdom come,
but the crickets could be trusted,
and when all else was lost,
we could still put our faith
in them.