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~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ At dusk, the meadow exhales its first soft pulses of light~ tiny lanterns adrift in the Missouri dark. I cup my hands like a beggar, but these are gifts that cannot be kept. Their glow licks my fingers, brief as a breath held too long, then fades into the night’s hungry mouth. What is it to hold something so fleeting? A moment. A match struck and blown out. Still, I chase them~ not to possess, but to feel their golden tremor~ that tiny miracle lighting up the nighttime sky. a related memoir vignetted can be read at: poetrysoup.com/short_stories/catching_lightning_bugs_13624
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