A sticky June evening
sitting on my back porch
watching fireflies blink in and out
of the cool night air-
A touch...
A whisper of memory
slides up my neck and into my hair.
And I see
myself as a chld,
grasping leaves torn from a honeysucke bush
and nestled within them
a small, tender light
blinking slowly in my palm.
I can feel the warmth
of that tiny lantern
pulsing through the silken sweat
of my hand.
And I am young
for an instant,
and the air crackles
like the hairs of my cat
after a thunderstorm,
and I am watching
the night sky
as a man
with only sweat in his palm.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem