Looking out I see the fireflies.
Giant, they glimmer on sides of
skyscrapers gossiping.
Bulbs that put the sun to shame fry the eyes of onlookers,
but still I stare.
They entice me,
dancing like seductive women in firelight glow.
Spinning and twirling, they waltz with the dark.
Dreamy clouds stroll by on lakeside walks.
They try to see what shapes the car streams make.
Yet we go back to the fireflies.
They try to escape their invisible jar, but something keeps them.
Is it me?
Am I their magnet?
They stay still, staring at a painting I cannot see,
my eyes are only human.
They see the brushstrokes of taillights and contrasts of stars.
The fireflies recognize the beauty in the urbanely natural.
Our cities are their museums where they see the greats at work.
Wind, Water, Earth, and Us, these are the painters of this canvas.
Unknowingly we produce the perfect in the imperfect.
We make firefly gold.