(for the fireflies, and the children we once were)
We are the last
to run barefoot through fields
where the dusk once flickered
with a thousand tiny stars
stars that danced just for us,
invisible to the grown
until we pointed and whispered,
“Look…”
We are the last
to cup that trembling gold in our hands,
a gentle pulsing heart
cradled in wonder
not to keep,
only to marvel at
before letting go.
Now the night grows quieter.
Their lanterns dim
under the weight of our cities,
our poisons, our forgetting.
And the wild, once full of songs
we never learned the words to,
begins to fall silent
one creature at a time.
But hush
don’t turn away.
Not yet.
There is still a shimmer in the dark,
still time to turn off the noise,
to plant the green again,
to teach our children not just names
but reverence.
To make room again
for glow.
Their light is not lost,
only waiting.
And perhaps,
just perhaps,
if we remember how to listen
how to hold softly
how to live gently
they’ll come back.
Not for us,
but for the ones who come after,
who deserve to know
that magic once flew
in the shape of a spark.
And that we
yes, we
chose to protect it.
- E. V. Carlson
_________________
I wrote this poem after stumbling across a post that stopped me cold: We may be the last generation that will see fireflies.
Something in me ached at those words.
I thought of childhood summers, of magic flickering in the dark, of innocence we never thought could vanish.
This poem is my way of mourning that (almost) loss, and maybe, just maybe, keeping the light alive.
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