Sonnet #342

 I hear the ocean in the shell

But not the pumpkin: there, I hear

The cicadas of late summer near

The soft rustle of beetleshells

Opening and closing in flight.

I found a dead cicada, too, and listened

To the shell, and heard the wind

I expected to hear something light

A whisper of ghost, perhaps, or else

The dull hum of their mighty horn

As just an echo of the mighty belts

Of summer, and the pumpkin torn

From out the patch too soon, I felt

Like listening, oh little hollow shells stillborn