At Best a Jar of Lightning Bugs

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AT BEST A JAR OF LIGHTNING BUGS


Most flew well beyond the hope

we fleshed as fingers flashing out,


but with a shout we caught a few,

held up the Mason jar to watch them 


limp around the bottom edge 

as if they too were circling the thing


we were really hoping to catch:

something like sum total 


of evening field, still lake, the ache

they combine to ignite for a light


even longer than summer. 

At my elbow she asked why


they were bent like that

and I told her about the way


we have of winging the very flicker

we’re hungry to preserve. 


We watched them burn a minute,

the steam of our breath veiling the glass,


then tapped them free on the grass

and didn’t clutch for another word. 


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