Time stops to watch the fireflies,
the second handís unremitting sweep
that follows day with night
arrested by their glimmer,
pressed in sultry swaths of summer dusk.
Staccato sparks cascade,
a rippled ricochet of pulse and gleam
inscribing through the settling dark
the complex conversation of their luring dance.
I pause, too, ever entranced by this momentary magic
that hides in margins,
the in-betweens of place and time,
outside the binary frame of dark and light,
inside the cut-out pockets where rebelling nature
repels the brick and concrete of a steel-girded city,
spaces crammed to bursting with this ghosting maze of flicker and flash
that lingering twilight remembers as it fades.