The Fireflies Are Dying

Look.
It’s peaceful, isn’t it?
The blackened sky is clear,
and the moon is wide awake.
The night would be perfect for dancing,
if it wasn’t for those delicate, blinking lights underfoot.
Amidst the long, tufted grass,
the thousand tiny embers burn tiredly.
They are beautiful for a heartbeat,
until I realize
that the fireflies are dying.

On the air, I can smell the first snowfall
and I know that soon, darkness will reign harshly.
The first step in saying Goodbye is
accepting that the fireflies are dying.

We had plans, you see,
plans that would have brought us into another world.
All it would have taken was one night.
Now, though, it will forever be too late:
the fireflies are dying.

I want it to happen,
I want it to work.
But even as I want, I know,
that even while the ground is still warm,
the air is chill,
and the fireflies are dying.

It has been amazing
holding so much power in the palm of my hand,
and watching it flicker on the tip of my finger,
but reminiscing is useless.
The fireflies are dying.

You already knew it, didn’t you.
I can see it in your eyes.
You have known for a long time.
You pity me because I didn’t know
that the fireflies are dying.

I’m sorry I can’t keep for you
in a little jar
the image I painted in the air with hopeful words.
How silly of me not to realize that, even as I spoke,
the fireflies were dying.

I have to remind myself not to cry
because tears are selfish.
I try to tell myself that there is more to the world than just
fireflies.
I try to tell myself that summer will come again.

Attempting is useless.
The fireflies are dying.