| The fire will fly in the face of the storm,
in the silent and heady evenings
through thick fields of corn,
and on up the gleaming pathways
long after the sun’s rays have danced
off to the heavens and into the stars.
Still the fire flies and pulses and glows.
I see it in your eyes
like I see it in the rows
upon rows upon rows
of dark emerald green
and the little yellow lights
cast furtive hallowed beams
to sparkle and move in sanguine succession
like surfaces glinting from cold, restful streams.
Yes, the fireflies, in holistic procession,
speak to your soul with language
ancient, holy, and rare…
Oh, give words to my thoughts!
I’ll cast in my lots
and lie down
in sweet pastures of air.
©2001 Carl Pecinovsky
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Words