His sanguine spirit turns every firefly into a star.
—Arthur Conan Doyle
Sky of Fireflies
Might I return to the night, alone,
except for the pitter patter of rain,
except for the thunderbolt of fireworks,
somewhere in the distance, rather
close, yet unattainable, except by foot
or engine roar, through my forest
and over the hill, beyond the houses,
might I return to the night, alone.
On the deck, my extravaganza begins,
beyond my nose, my fingertips, the screen.
In July, a rampant light show, as if
stars rappelled just above the human heart.
This electrifying dominion, quite unexpected.
The earth, moistened and morose. Osmosis
of celebration and outlandish spectacle,
for an audience of one. Oh! How good God is!
Amidst crackles and whistles, the strobes,
of an army of fireflies, light up my backyard.
Curious as Alice, have I fallen into Wonderland?
I have a front row seat sans willows, comets
and Chrysanthemums, but the sky over
my sodden green moss is the epitome
of heaven on earth; His presence in the night.