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    Fireflies

    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. 


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