Dogs take us for a walk,
three in number, 329 in years
(if you subscribe to the canine calculus).
The yawning summer sky
turns Wedgwood to crimson to sapphire,
and kids appear in luscious yards at the appointed hour;
bearing giggles and shrieks and hopes
of harnessing the elusive firefly —
the lightning bug that strikes multiple times in the soul.
A familiar tug on the leash doesn’t distract,
but rather reinforces
the smell of new-mown grass,
the cicadas’ symphony,
the discontinued novel,
the unbegun play,
the cluttered basement,
the reality, the fantasy,
the home run still to be hit,
the glorious status quo,
and the carefree yelps of a girl however old, who topples
in innocent grandeur onto green blades of youth,
and who stays there as we now only wish we could.
As the first stars appear, and the pale crescent
begins its fleeting flirtation,
the fireflies in my mind
lead me on a chase again, reckless and ambitious.
Then my universe turns, gently holding two leashes;
she cocks her head ever so slightly,
and she smiles, all the love in the world in one gaze.
We walk on,
pockets full of fireflies.