poem about fireflies
Back then, our town was
lit by fireflies. Living candescent
currents flowed through the
summer in golden pulses as we
pretended to be Homeric heroes embarking
on Odysseys across summer lawns,
discovering magic in delicate gardens,
and glimpsing portals to Eden around every corner.
Every story needs a villain, so my grandfather
volunteered himself as the dragon—chasing
us until he grew weary enough to declare that
“Age shows,”
before collapsing onto the wooden rocking bench.
When our frowns emerged from the epic’s sudden end,
he’d grab the nearest container—a discarded Halloween
pail—sweep it through the air, and pluck light from the sky
before offering the glowing vessel beside him.
And so there I sat, content, with
a plastic jack-o’-lantern lit by fireflies.
Nowadays, our town never
grows dim. Long have the fireflies
been extinguished, but we’ve
adapted. Incandescent lamps
illuminate blacktop streets with sterile
beams—progress, we call it—but
in our advancement, something has been lost.
I’ve long outgrown those summer nights
Yet still, I can sense the absence.
There is no magic in the air.
In my childhood home, I see the green
battlefield I conquered as Achilles choked
with dandelions and crabgrass. The wooden
rocking bench my grandfathered loved sits
unoccupied, stained by age and moss. It’s been
years since I felt his presence or heard his voice,
years since he followed the fireflies into final darkness,
but now, his words are crystal in a silent echo:
“Age shows.”
And so there I sat, ceaselessly hoping,
that around the next corner would be
a portal back to Eden, back to the town
where acquaintances became friends,
then family, then strangers. Back to the days
when blinking rivulets of light could light a deep sky.