Sunday, July 7, 2013


Photo: (c) Jamie K. Reaser

The dusks of humid summer days
have a magic about them
called fireflies.
Watch them blinking above the long grasses
and in the dark woodland.
Catch one, gently.
Hold it in the cup of your hand
and let it tickle-walk across your
palm, all six legs striding, until it can’t bear
the tangible for one second more and spreads its beetle-
wings and becomes – how high can it go? -  a star.

Now you are back in your childhood,
aren’t you? And the glass jar is big
and has a metal lid. Probably, red.
It once held peanut butter,
and it makes a particular sound when you
open and close it. Do you hear it?

I remember what it felt like to spin the top on,
and spin the top off, and how you had
to be fast to get one in and not let the others out.

Back then,

Did you ever imagine all the things that
a single jar could hold?

Mine has in it the voices of the other kids,
and their mothers calling them in.
Cars going down the street,
dogs barking,
lawn mowers falling silent for the night,

Illusions that I thought were truths at the time.

And yellow. Luminescent yellow.

“Come and be my lover,” they said
“Go away! You scare me,” they said.

I adored them and adore them still.  

They taught me how to ask questions.

They taught me how to get silent enough 
to hear answers.


They taught me how to be with things that go on
in this world beyond our understanding.                                                          

How often the child of me
has saved the adult of me,
because she can remember fireflies.

© 2013-2018/Jamie K. Reaser
From "Coming Home: Learning to Actively Love this World" 
Published by Talking Waters Press

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  1. Beautiful, Jamie--shimmers like the fireflies. And I especially like the last sentence. True for me, as well.

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