We must cherish those light-up bugs, floating flitting, fireflies,
dancing through the fading dusk, tiny wings hitting, fireflies.
While the loon yodels over ponds of flowers and green reeds,
Their beams scatter, stitching skyward patterns, spitting fireflies.
The trike, dumped in the drive on its side, traded to favor
cupping hands to cluster beacons, babysitting fireflies.
In January’s chill, their shivering flames melt into night,
Golden then gone, like my birthday snuffed, forgetting fireflies.
We must cherish those light-up bugs, quivering overhead,
Renewed heartbeats ‘neath the trees, mine too, pounds again. Fireflies.
Glancing through my periphery, now in July, hissing Liv,
let light in. A flicker in time, life emitting fireflies.
Olivia Smith