-This poem reflects on fireflies as one of summer’s quiet marvels, turning an ordinary yard at dusk into a place of living light and wonder.
At first the yard seems only dim,
the grass gone soft beneath the night,
the trees reduced to hush and shape,
the air made still by evening heat.
Then one small lantern lifts from dark,
then two, then more along the hedge,
brief green gold signals in the dusk,
appearing where the eye gives in.
They rise and vanish, rise again,
as if the field were learning stars,
and every pulse of living light,
made wonder from the common air.
No sound announces this bright work,
no branch bends low to hold the glow,
yet summer keeps this quiet art,
for those who stay to watch it breathe.