Summer brought fireflies in swarms.
They lit our evenings like dreams
we thought we couldn't have.
We caught them in jars, punched
holes, carried them around for days.
Luminous abdomens that when charged
with air turn bright. Imagine!
mere insects carrying such cargo,
magical caravans flickering beneath
low July skies. We chased them, amazed.
The idea! Those tiny bodies
They made reckless traffic,
signaling, neon flashes forever
into the deepening dusk.
They gave us new faith
in the nasty tonics of childhood-
pungent, murky liquids promising
shining eyes, strong teeth, glowing skin-
and we silently vowed to swallow ever after.
What was the secret of light?
We wanted their brilliance-
small fires hovering,
each tiny explosion
the birth of a new world.
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Comments about this poem (Childhood by Sharan Strange )
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(28 November 1757 – 12 August 1827)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
James Bayard Taylor
(11 January 1825 – 19 December 1878)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
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