Dance of the Fireflies
End of November they came,
high in the leaves clinging to the oaks,
a soft enduring flame
holding fast to the branches smoked.
A twinkling of light upon the trunks
speeding up and down like falling stars,
each a separate entity unsung
savoring the chilled night poet's memoirs.
Eye of the beholder focused
on images never seen before
but present in clustered hypnoses
of simple glowing magnificent decor.
As if landing lights displayed
blinking on and off in brilliant lit glow
where once only dried leaves had laid
sending a message to live life before it goes.
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