In the center of a dry summer,
a yellow summer of
hot nights and early dawn,
I had forgotten the fireflies of June.
There were none.
For their stars, the rain must fall
to ignite June’s show.
Then July, a few days before
a storm, weeping rain,
and the summer opened up its arms.
Grass grew and flowers bloomed,
and Mary called
sitting among the shadows
of the dark,
fireflies!
Ted, the fireflies are here!
I haven’t seen so many
in so long! she said.
Then fell into the silence of her awe.
I stepped on the porch
and there in the night
was a galaxy of golden stars,
a ballet of flame,
an earth forcibly in love.
An intensity so huge
I’ve only seen it in eyes
that look back at me
from the deepest wells.
The soul light of a soul.
The inside, the inside
of everything that lives.
And I loved summer.
I loved the maximum journeys
of its sky.
And the lightning bugs of June
returning in July
to make Mary smile.