Fireflies

It was where we found shelter,

Deep among the roots, sturdy,

And buried beneath these old floorboards.

The whippoorwills would sing us to sleep,

As the only lights that came through the,

Small framed window, were

Those from the silent calls of the fireflies.

At a time we were most naive,

Our hands carrying old fruit jars,

Filled with the soft flickering lights

Of these frail creatures.

We laid there in the dark,

Like we were six once again.

Bewildered at the delicacy we held in our hands.

Tears of sweat roamed down our bodies,

Unsure of where to go.

In that muggy summer heat,

It was too hot for pajamas, let alone our jockeys.

This is where we learned to breathe songs,

Into one another’s mouths.

Awkward, and most unskilled to the passing of tongues.

To the flickering of lights that sprung from the jars.

We awoke to the sound of the Chick-A-Dee,

Scolding her young.

Knowing we were no longer callow to the,

Fireflies in the nearby jars.

Their lights no longer delightful, but bare.

For every month wasted, fireflies were lost.

Holding on to something that was never,

Truly ours.

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