Like an other-worldly siren,
their collective hum
crochets the air—
the hush of ecstatic
angel armies
around the throne
when the Creator
calls for quiet.
In the night when fibromyalgia,
like a blacksmith, tongs
glowing nerve endings,
this rare cicada song
is the quenching bucket,
magnesium for my muscles.
Puzzled by pain,
I’m tempted to
despair, but their holy
shush reminds me
God is everywhere.