Page 78 - Vol. VI #3
P. 78
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Fireflies
The least thing
is the science. Mating rituals
hold little fascination for me now. In the forest beside this path, fireflies blink in and out
while I walk through the dark and worry over my future
as an old woman, or how
to make a difference before I die, but the best things happen
while forgetting what I know -- then I see the fireflies are flames cupped by my dead, who still love to haunt the slash pine woods
at night in spring, to watch
the stars blink in and out
through needle and branch.
Were you like me, I ask, before
you were ghosts? Is it true nothing I do can stop you from loving me?
miChele leavitt
