Fireflies are magic.
A child-like innocence returns to my soul
as I watch their twinkling small suns,
winking, beckoning.
Night becomes sweet and mysterious.
Messages in morse code:
indecipherable quick blinks in a row,
like dot - dot - dot;
slow-held blinks that create streaks like fairy sparklers,
as in dash — swirl — dash;
the ones I hold my breath in wonder of
that go blink — long pause — blink;
or any scintillating combination thereof.
Tiny alchemical conversations.
As dusk drifts gently into the hillside,
in our little clearing below the decks,
a microcosmic field of fireflies begins to flicker,
the wondrous golden lights reflect upon
a verdant carpet that grows ever darker
as the curtain of night falls.
These precious beings
spark imagination as they float upward,
into the thick, damp air
like stars from within the earth to
whisper their tales if we listen.
These are emissaries of tranquility,
showing us the way to glimmering peace.
