The Way the Light Shines

The shrill singing of cicada
reminds me that last spring
I found the shell of a cicada
perfect in detail but without
the living body. Tonight we four
friends, old in affection, sit
around a candlelit table
and smile and joke as the soft
light dims our features. When
the shrill doorbell announced
the paperboy collecting his pay,
someone snapped on the light
and I saw as shadows vanished
how the greedy years had sucked
the honey of youth from us.
But I noted how the outlines
of our faces kept familiar the
portrait of the person we remembered.