Catching Fireflies
That magical moment each summer
when the first fireflies appeared,
blinking me, winking me out of the house.
Jar in hand,
stealthily advancing,
trapping one and then another.
Illuminated glass glows,
a mystic lantern,
a tragic prison.
By morning’s light,
their bioluminescence extinguished,
tiny bodies lie in repose.
Now, years later,
I blame my unfortunate luck in love
on my errant firefly actions.
Surely I am being punished
for lacking an all-creatures-great-and-small
respect for Mother Nature.
Atonement will come only
if I instruct my own children
in the art of catch and release.
But I simply can’t rob them
of the childhood ritual
of lightning bug delight
in a jar.
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