Fireflies collect memories of farms
and soft grass cool between my feet.

I had never seen such miracles
as a youth in South Texas
where one dares not to tread
into the dry, sticker-bur filled grass
in the summer evening heat.

But venturing north to visit my grandparents
always brought with it the opportunity
to play with fire-flies.

More than the thrill of catching these luminescent
flying photuris beetles, was the chase.

The mise en scène:

Midwestern farmhouse circa mid-1800's construction.
Acres and acres of tall corn and bushy soy beans covered
in the most alive shade of dark green I knew.
Tall, tall walnut and white ash trees
mingling with equally towering pines.
Grass, soft, lithe, damp, and cool and soothing to your feet.
Cool evening air, a respite from the heat of home.

Who knew such things existed?
My grandparents,
my parents,
my five year old self,
and now my children -
the gift of fireflies
the perfect frill
for an otherwise
mundane and magnificent
piece of Americana.


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