fireflies
in our hands
as children
on the summer lawn.
racing in
our bare feet.
the fading light,
fading
faster as our mother called
us in.
and here we were,
with mason
jars full
of miracles,
with slow flickering
amber tails,
trapped for our own
strange pleasure.
lids pierced
so that they could breathe.
even now it feels like sin,
their beauty being
so brief.
2 comments:
Okay --this is going to seem like a drastic cut --but applying the "technique" from "the workshop," this could really end after "miracles." seriously.
I like this childhood poem a lot. Write more of them.
Post a Comment