Wild Air

We drank in the wild air
of our youth, the lessened heat
of August twilight. We swam
in a blueblack darkness broken
only by constellations and fireflies
the color of the sun, reaching out
to catch their flickering lights
in our cupped hands.

We gathered in folds
of clover outlined by starlight,
collecting the bright pinpricks
in mason jars to shine beside our beds.
Mothers let the fireflies free
once children drifted off to sleep –
in the summer’s nightfall,
these fireflies seemed
the earthly equivalent of stars.

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