The Insects

The clicking chirp
on so many summer nights.
This one echoed
off the hilltop,
and rows of bricks
layered with a time gone by,
but not forgotten.
Here I am
in the same town again,
but this perspective
was a question
answered by
insects.

Contemplation emerged.
The insects were louder.
Behind the trees,
and a planted garden
of vestigial peaceful solitude
I was told a secret.
A reminder from the insects
when I didn't necessarily
need to be told again.
They always play the same tune.

She is painted with butterflies,
but the species of
legged crawlers
is not the type
that sets this respite bound.
What floats in the air
or buzzes profoundly in our ears
annoys or helps to carry on.
The bees create.
The wasps have the same qualities,
but aim to sting you.
I always stopped to look at the insects.
Inching along a path seemingly impossible.

In the corner
of a lonesome stoop
to rest my head
there was a flash.
Another.
Blink that borrowed night.
Do you remember
the last time
simplicity and complexity
shared the same romance?
I stare off again.
My eyes wide open,
but this conversation is blind and shut.
Firefly.
In all of this darkness
hiding myself
you daunt and arrive
as I too
should be sealed into a jar.
Tap your fingers on the glass to observe.
We had seen our first fireflies
of that summer together.
She's painted with butterflies,
but it's on a broken wing,
and an sad prayer
that every time I've witnessed
a firefly
I reached out my hand
to hope it would stay
glowing there for a moment.
It's just that simple
to inspire awe
while thinking of odds.
These fireflies
signaled each other
from far away.
In a world larger,
and less tolerable than my own.
Aren't we the same?