Twilight: the whippoorwills call,
& the faint sound of Bob White
in the distance. Like a spark that snaps
from the unseasoned wood piled high
on a summer bonfire, we see it: the first
lightning bug. How we loved to run
through the weeds, and catch
these pixies in flight that seemed
to move at a snail’s pace.
Soon fields were swarming
with the phosphorescent seraphs.
We’d put them in an old Mason jar,
poke some holes in the lid, & find
the perfect place for them in our bedroom.
Silently, we’d watch the yellow sparkles
illuminate the room as we drifted off
to sleep. I’m glad we didn’t grow up
in the age of technology.
Dennis, I love the simile conveying the suddenness of the first lighting bug’s appearance and the comparison to seraphs. The reader in me is sorry the month of June has come to an end.
Thank you for all of your comments on my poetry.
I love the imagery.
Thank you!