While I sit at dusk as the sun dies,

striking matches for a fire,

I look up as my eyes tire

and recall your thoughts on fireflies.

A hundred pinpricks swarm the night,

dressed in shades of green and gold.

You said that in their glow they hold

golden memories, taken flight.

The night had been warm, an Autumn gift,

and previously you had sang

a melody of lovers' pangs,

but you paused, and now your talk did shift.

Intrigued, I asked: How then do you know

what precious secrets lie inside?

I don't, for they're ghosts- You replied-

forever trapped in the afterglow.

Ghosts?- I murmured with mirth in my eyes.

You pouted- Do not mock me dear,

for perhaps in not so many a year

you'll find yourself chasing fireflies.

So how does one find stranger from friend,

if in these things true spirits dwell?

Your laugh was like a chiming bell-

Fear not. They'll find you in the end.

I stare into the new-born blaze;

which gutters, spits, and dances along

to a long-forgotten piece of song,

your voice wrapped in an autumn haze,

trapped inside a firefly.