The Firefly

In the black and white of twilight as night
erodes the light of day, I sat
and scratched the head of my cream-colored cat.
A tiny shadow floats before me, its existence fleeting until
it glows...  a firefly...
and my world changes to wheat and rye.

Forty-odd years roll away, an earlier day,
my sister and I chasing small bugs of lightening
in slow motion, jars open, wonder wide, minds inviting.
All sounds are distant, ethereal, unreal, as the moments
stretch to magical sighs, our eyes
adjusting to shadow and shade, new mysteries made.

Adults in chairs, up there, unaware the game has changed
to hide-and-seek, to oxen-free
glowing jars forgotten on wooden step, with promise kept
of freedom at close of night's great joys,
when we retire to toys inside.

Parents have called, claimed right to night
as shadows fade to darkness black
we slide ourselves back
to harsh light indoors, hard floors to tread
and ready ourselves to rest and bed.

My cat content, my free moments spent,
my mind returns to the churns
of now....   and I rise to slide inside
where whisper of air replaces the fair breeze
of night.  I sit now and write.  

Know yourself, reader sublime, catcher of rhyme,
don't let slip the joys of past, of childhood blast,
of times simple, at once old and new.
These are the moments that refresh you,
reset you, and let you know that you are indeed
alive.

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