Bilquisu A

Lightning Bug Thief

I.

Lazy afternoons and busy Sundays brought us here. Your bright smiling face opening the screen door always told us it would be a good day. Looking up at the sky from the swing set on the dark, mahogany wooden porch, we were like weathermen. Trying to decipher what the night would bring with it. The thick, dry air contributing to that estimation, prompted us to gather our tools. A jar, much larger than my hands, but not enough to discourage me from using it, was all we had.

While awaiting night, our other tool, lemonade, cold water and music playing from a car stereo in the parking lot were our distractions. They kept us occupied. And then, night appeared; which made the tiny sparks of light both in our eyes and out, visible. Slow, then quick movements trapped these lights in our jars. It gave us the spark in our eye, a chance to show off, a chance to relish in success, for a time. And then, it was time to let go. Let the light gather into its own. Waiting for the night to pass away.

II.

Lazy afternoons

On that dark wooden swing,

Waiting for the night,

The thick, dry air swells.

Cold lemonade,

And soft music

And distractions

And finally, night appears.

Tiny sparks,

Light our eyes.

Slow then quick,

Our movements trap them.

We let the light gather,

Into its own.

Watching the night

Pass away.

Warmth

morticians

feverishly,

even hesitantly,

acquiesce

in grasping

the cold

dead

hand

of love,

of sun,

of light