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.