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,
capturing the bright pinpricks
in mason jars to sit, shining,
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.
I know it isn’t terribly different from earlier drafts but, sometimes, it seems the slightest tweaks can finish a thing. Different enjambment, the changing of one word or two, the carefully considered language that you do not change, but only seems final after weighing each word.
So there it is.