She told me once
that she's never
seen a firefly.
Last night, I tried
to catch her one.
The evening breeze
had drawn it close;
silently it
wandered through the
open window.
At first, moonlight
masked its entrance.
The modest torch
it carried had
been overwhelmed
by shades of grey.
It landed on
a tiny leaf,
from vines that crawled
up the walls, and
into my room.
Resting quietly
on its platform,
the dull, green strobe
pulsated, slow
constant rhythm.
I cupped my hands,
extended them,
and gently reached
out toward the
unsuspecting
visitor. It
stayed, motionless.
At that moment,
I knew it was
mine to keep. For
you. For me? I
can't remember.
It had become
my light, my warmth.
All that mattered,
to me it was.
I opened my
cupped hands. Still it
stayed, motionless.
One, two, three, four.
I noticed that
every burst had
become dimmer
than the previous.
It was dying.
*I imagined
it must've tried
hard, gathering
enough courage
to shine brightly
in the darkness,
but a firefly
cannot outshine
the brightest star.*
If I had known.
If I listened,
I would've heard
its humble plea:
*Though my light fades,
let me rest here
in your own warmth.
You don't glow green,
but I see it.
You are shining.
Let me rest here
in your own warmth.*
She told me once
that she's never
seen a firefly.
Tonight, I will
tell her how I
had caught her one,
and what I learned:
*Seek not the weak
light that flickers
in another.
Look inside you.
It burns bright red.*
Apr 9, 2013
Apr 9, 2013 at 7:01 PM UTC
She told me once
that she's never
seen a firefly.
Last night, I tried
to catch her one.
The evening breeze
had drawn it close;
silently it
wandered through the
open window.
At first, moonlight
masked its entrance.
The modest torch
it carried had
been overwhelmed
by shades of grey.
It landed on
a tiny leaf,
from vines that crawled
up the walls, and
into my room.
Resting quietly
on its platform,
the dull, green strobe
pulsated, slow
constant rhythm.
I cupped my hands,
extended them,
and gently reached
out toward the
unsuspecting
visitor. It
stayed, motionless.
At that moment,
I knew it was
mine to keep. For
you. For me? I
can't remember.
It had become
my light, my warmth.
All that mattered,
to me it was.
I opened my
cupped hands. Still it
stayed, motionless.
One, two, three, four.
I noticed that
every burst had
become dimmer
than the previous.
It was dying.
*I imagined
it must've tried
hard, gathering
enough courage
to shine brightly
in the darkness,
but a firefly
cannot outshine
the brightest star.*
If I had known.
If I listened,
I would've heard
its humble plea:
*Though my light fades,
let me rest here
in your own warmth.
You don't glow green,
but I see it.
You are shining.
Let me rest here
in your own warmth.*
She told me once
that she's never
seen a firefly.
Tonight, I will
tell her how I
had caught her one,
and what I learned:
*Seek not the weak
light that flickers
in another.
Look inside you.
It burns bright red.*
This has been in my drafts since October 2012. I couldn't decide what to do with it. I was unsure because sometimes parts didn't make sense to me. And it feels childish. I suppose one could say that's the charm.
Request permission to use this poem