Last day of May, first night of fireflies.
All the details of the day a blur and flicker.
Try to catch one and you’ll miss the all of it.
Look up and the leaves have turned black.
The sky pale as a wet cloth absorbs their dark.
The bat caroms off air with a voice we can’t hear
And at ground level the day stays a little longer
All that little lightning and no thunder.
Boxing up books. It is almost summer.
So many different flowers are packed in
the small flower garden. Gin and tonic
in a jar with ice, as light leaks away.
There are the dead, the lost,
the memories floating in patterns
like fireflies, their season starting
with a wild inland storm, mountains
disappearing behind the gray wall
To the world we go, extinguishing and compelled.
Early summer evening. Through a knot of fireflies
A few stars showing. To the world
an evening of fireflies and an epoch of stars
are the same, just what I see, no difference.
I will remember this firefly and this evening
as they travel at light’s speed into a past
beyond existence at the same speed a star’s memory
travels into the future to meet this evening,
this view. To the world depth starts to go
its own way towards deterioration and someone
determines it’s time to start counting the stars.
