The Fireflies Sing Tonight
Murmurs hum in the thick August air like the
beating of a bumblebee's heart, the invisible
orchestra's cadence drawing the final curtain upon
the fox's tail cradling an orange sun.
Mother runs through the auburn fields, coal-colored
braids trailing in the wind. Her weathered hands carry a
tin pot, where she drops moonstones, bluebonnets and
lovebugs in a concoction of sap — "Honeypot tricks," she calls them.
As the sky becomes swatched with indigo hues and
black clouds, I take a wooden spoon and clang it against
Mother's honeypot. The fireflies come to feast upon her offerings
and, in return, show me the path to the city.
Twinkling lights dot the skyline as jazz beyond the bayou
shakes the earth beneath the soles of my feet. Coca-Cola lines
stretch around the curb as ladies in black sequins and
smoky pearls enter golden doors under neon lights. Boys
and girls in summer shorts & pinstripe tees chase the sparks
of orange fireworks.
I follow them but they are lost in cobblestone storefronts. Busboy
caps line the streetlamps as newspaper rags form coats of steel along the
brick walls of alleyways. A man with broken teeth who looks like me
asks, "Got a quarter for me, Missy?" but the fireflies ignore him and fly on.
I sequester myself in a silent theater as a piano crescendo
collides with the rainstorm brewing outside. The movie
begins to play, and I begin to cry for Mother.