Fireflies

​In the dry summer field at nightfall, 

fireflies rise like sparks. 

Imagine the presence of ghosts 

flickering, the ghosts of young friends, 

your father nearest in the distance. 

This time they carry no sorrow,

no remorse, their presence is so light. 

Childhood comes to you, 

memories of your street in lamplight, 

holding those last moments before bed, 

capturing lightning-bugs,

with a blossom of the hand 

letting them go. Lightness returns, 

an airy motion over the ground 

you remember from Ring Around the Rosie. 

If you stay, the fireflies become fireflies 

again, not part of your stories, 

as unaware of you as sleep, being 

beautiful and quiet all around you.

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