The fireflies tonight, joyful and prescient,
are dense, secreted in hedges of oregano,
strung and lit like Noel.

I cannot discern if I am persuaded by
their rhythm – my breathing weaved
in the pulse of their communal flash –
or if they are aligning to my inclination.

I light candles and they respond in vigorous
affirmation of their flame.

When I retire to the screened-in porch, they follow
and then hover for a minute or so there
outside the mesh, flickering on and off and
on and off, again and again…

But in a short while they are gone. The world outside
turns wholly dark and the air suddenly cooler. I
am rapt with the indiscernible shapes I can see
there at the edge of candlelight.

Chagall 2018

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