I looked at the fly as it stood on the wall,
Unproblematic until it had a fall,
It fell on the table motionless and cold,
Bewildered, I wondered if flies get old?
Do they write obituaries about flies that had a spark
And glowed like fireflies in the dark?
Do they think they might get old and sad
About the spark they never had,
I thought in mid of August it was bleak
When I saw my grandmother retreat,
She was my firedfly in a world of bees
She taught me to light my wings
Beyond trees and seas,
And yet on the ground she lay
Among bees, and flies glowing in the day.
