by Marilyn Kallet

In the dry summer field at nightfall,

fireflies rise like sparks.

Imagine the presence of ghosts

flickering, the ghosts of young friends,

your father nearest in the distance.

This time they carry no sorrow,

no remorse, their presence is so light.

Childhood comes to you,

memories of your street in lamplight,

holding those last moments before bed,

capturing lightning-bugs,

with a blossom of the hand

letting them go. Lightness returns,

an airy motion over the ground

you remember from Ring Around the Rosie.

If you stay, the fireflies become fireflies

again, not part of your stories,

as unaware of you as sleep, being

beautiful and quiet all around you.


  1. You know, I blogged about fireflies (or as we call them, "lightning bugs") years ago. I was astonished to find out that there are parts of the USA in which there are NONE. How terribly sad. How do they know when Summer has Officially Arrived?


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Hey, thanks for your thoughts and your time:>)

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