In The Gloaming

As children, we called them lightning bugs.
We caught them in jars with holes poked in the top,
where we watched in fascination
as they lit up the dark,
until in they died
in our beneficent captivity.

It's summer and in the gloaming
they are fireflies, 
not the lightning bugs of youth,
who flash for an instant and disappear.
These fireflies are magical.
They twinkle in a gossamer dance, 
warm and comforting like their namesake.

I marvel in the ethereal beauty,
the mesmerizing silence,
the peace that fills me
and harms no one.
I am old and know better
than to attempt to capture magic in a jar.

I will be still in the summer gloaming,
steeping myself in firefly joy;
immersed in the moment of their freedom.
For those few minutes 
the world is at peace,
and so am I.

~Elise Skidmore ©2025