fireflies are doomed to poetry and children.
anything can that create light from itself
deserves verse
and
isnt smashing them on the ground
and taking their glow out of them
some sort of fun
or the baseball bat homerun hit
they make a nice flick sound
on contact
and boy
if boys dont like killing bugs
they wouldnt be much use
for moms.
but me
i was never able to do it
i couldnt swing
or
make that ping
if something is so beautiful
alive,
turning on and off
then
what good is murder
for one second
of wow
against a nighttime of
earth stars twinkling
as other kids hit them
making shooting stars
I shrugged
and saw one
who held his light too long
(he only wanted to pass the torch)
and caught him
across my fingers
his tickling toes
trecked
so gentle and nice
he was okay with me
and I was okay with him.
then he flew off my fingertips
immediately
struck down with a bat
and a laugh.
this summer it was dark
I realized now why
the fireflies that were left
packed their bags
and lit out,
snuffed refugees
from a time
when the summer air held stars,
and the sky
was but a trying reflection
of heaven on earth.
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