Sometimes I think you’re like the fireflies
My friends and I caught on summer evenings
When we were barely old enough to speak.
There was always something wild and strange
About holding a living, ethereal glow in our hands.
I taught them to flatten their palms,
Let the lightning bugs alight on little fingers
Before flitting away into the night air.
When you flew away too, I held my hands open.
I wonder, now, if I should have cupped them closed.