[Poetry] Fireflies by Philip Lisi

I

Summers ago,

you ran wild in the yard–

Oh, how you made me laugh, sister!

Giddy as a sprite,

chasing after fireflies

with an oversized net

more suited for catching tadpoles,

too long and heavy for you to wield

with any real precision.

Years older than you,

and not nearly as excited

about imprisoning insects in jars–

however impermanently–

I watched you disappear into the playhouse

Where you used to invite me to tea parties.

There you were safe,

fortified by cedar shingles

and permastone walls,

I could see you through the window,

setting the table with Winne-the-Pooh cups and saucers

brought down from the attic,

placing at its center the result of your evening labors–

a centerpiece of dwindling light.

II

The yard is full of them tonight–

a thousand little sparks,

alive and gone in an instant–

then alive again, night shining

against the silhouette of the playhouse

before fading once more.

Tonight, I wish more than anything

I could do more than wipe the dust

from the jar you left on the little table

all those years ago.

I wish more than anything

I could capture enough light to bring you back,

to see you, once again, gathering lightning in a jar,

even if only for a moment

in the luminescent breath of a firefly

Philip Andrew Lisi lives in Lancaster, Pennsylvania, where he teaches English by day and writes poetry and flash fiction by night alongside the ghost of his cantankerous Wichien Maat cat, Sela. His work has appeared in Wild Roof, Third Wednesday, Last Leaves, October Hill, and elsewhere.