My Tired Eyes, To the Light
Midsummer, five a.m., and the fireflies are few and far between.
Just hours ago, the lawn sky fireworked
with their phosphorescent love songs
and the showy bright light of species survival.
Now, only a few remain, blinking slowly
as sunrise slips past
the raw edge of
And what of them?
Are they earnest? Or merely addled?
Or thoroughly and unrequitedly besotted?
And whoever can know?
Surely not a middle-aged coffee-clutching specimen of humanity
who remarks, to no one in particular,
at the unselfconscious willingness of the fireflies
to greet the dawn with their light;
and who observes
that fading illumination
is the most amazing
fact of fireflies