Fireflies are precious.
Specs aflame against
the black and blue hues
of night; like a bruise
upon the atmosphere.
In the light their lime
spark is as clear as
the air you breathe.
The twinkle is vanished
in the yellow rays of
the world.
As night falls the
sparks fly again; each a
brilliant burst of florescent glow.
Flying through the black,
they are like lime juice drops;
seen here, sucked up there,
reappearing against the cold
grated night sky.
Children run to catch
the odd glow.
Some say it’s green
while others see yellow.
Never-the-less they dance in
nature, fading with the bruised
background; as does the
warm burst, waiting to rise again,
and paint the black and blue canvas
rainbow.