A Cricket's Soliloquy

We extemporize the rhythmic throb of the human heart
so artfully
that our nonsensical chant
fain would have invoked resentment
in any among the enamored
who were the least bit perspicacious;
albeit, none were.

A soul voice desists from mockery
and an invidious voice is she,
with all her chimerical proclamations
of liberation.
Why must she be so desultory
as to feel?!

She raises her wings impetuously, so that they bask in prisms of sky
that do not exist,
and makes inquiries of the Sun:
"Why do you--centuries louder than I--
waver in deference to Earth's slightest entreaties?
You scorch her snows with your trenchant imprecations;
you squabble gaily with her waters.
You speak politely to her forests,
and sing with passion through her fields.
And when the most facecious flower is desirous of repose
you appease him with your gentlest whisper
and paint his portrait on the grass with your near-silence.
Are you yet so impressionable, Sun?
Why do you strive for their contentment?
None here cares to notice, save myself
and the wind.
Ah! the wind?  are you trying to win her affection?

Still? ..."

She persists in her aberrations--we know not for whom.
The Sun remains consistently inconsistent;
she remains: irregularity in our human heartbeat.
We chant with heightened ferver;
overpower her, until she passes unnoticed, if only for a spell.
Why must she be so obstinate
as to love?