Firefly

I’m living, now, in a place too warm

for fireflies, but I remember

them well, those neon blinks

of day weaving

an ever-changing constellation

against the navy summer night.

That little light, a plea

from each one, a prayer

to be seen

and who of us does not -

could not -

understand that?

Once, I was nine

and falling over my feet

to cup them in my hands

or stuff them in jars

to get a better look.

And still, if I were

to see one again

I think I might want to hold her

at least for a little while.

But I don’t want to leave

this beautiful world,

this world that knows well

the ugliness in taking,

only having seen

how much of its wonder

I can fit in my palms.

I want to love the robin

without plucking

even one of her

little grey feathers

or cracking open

her hollow ribs

to find the invisible song.

I want to love the mosquito,

let him drink from my hand,

for every bit of me is as good his.

I want to love the river

from its banks.

I swear to you

I’ll never trap one again

those lovely wannabe stars.