The fireflies,
little exhales of gold,
have returned
after a
long absence,
and now
they are precious.
They might as well be
glimpses of
every lost summer—
a reconfigured landscape
of memory filled with
moon spray and
light speak
and other
accidental miracles,

or
tiny leaks in the
mortal world
where the infinite
drips through,

perhaps poems
in a higher language

or
a practice run for much
better things,

right here beside
the lawn chairs
and the zealous
honeysuckle vine
that didn't know
when to quit.

Each blink
is another moment,
each moment,
another Absolute Now.

What if . . .
just one,
immortalized by faith,
could change
everything

and we'd finally
know that we
are marvels
just for being
and this story is
so much better
because we
are in it?

Fire away,
prodigal messengers
of No-time and
All-time,
living for the
purpose of
a little drama
in the blindness,

to be some
surrogate stars when
the sky has slammed shut,

a few signposts that say:
Look . . .
This is the way back
to the place
of beginnings.


Patricia Joan Jones



Author's notes:

Fireflies are disappearing all over the world due to habitat loss, pesticide use and light pollution.