What If All The Things They Said About Love Are True

I rarely saw fireflies in Mississippi
once or twice in Laurel Park
flickering in the leafy humid dark
pulsing above blue metal bench swings

in Oklahoma off the main road
country overgrowth July damp from swimming
searching for golden light the possibility
of holding it in our hands
watching them shimmer always elusive

never in California too dusty dry
my own semi desert that boasts of nothing
settle for valley city lamps
bright contrast nestled in night mountains
glass beads poured in a shadow container

but here we are
cupping live light in our palms
I am usually nervous to hold insects
feather legs on fragile skin
antennae waving against my closed fist
wings pause then beat for release
calm for an instant then frantic

but I open my hand and this firefly stays
moves a bit wiggles settles
content to blink yellow in my grasp

I wait for it to leave
careful pulse tender creature
give it the option of uninhibited flight
but it is still and so I 

gently press my hands together
to create a kind of dark
seal my fingers into a container then
shut one eye peek into a minuscule crack
admire this incandescent glow

--Trianne H., Adult