firewings

Most children catch fireflies.
I watch my own stumble through the dew,
chubby hands outstretched to wings
that flicker beneath the dome of rich blue.
A memory surfaces of myself in
my grandmother’s home in the mountains,
running after minuscule elfin
figures in the full silence of night.

lights flutter,
glittering through a mesh
of thick darkness.
Glass jar on
cambric,
eyes blinking into sleep,
reflecting a star-map
of glory.