Fireflies and rain (By Eleanor Freemer)

 There was no moon that night.

Yet the garden shimmered in ghostly gray,

as if clinging to wisps of the passing day.

Beyond the black trees one light

flickered, then another, an iridescent glow

of garnets and topaz began to grow,

filling the air like shooting stars,

caught in woven strands of silver rain,

like candlesticks wrought in ancient Spain.

We followed the flames over the rain glaced lawn,

our bare feet dancing as if on an empty stage

carpeted with emerald mint and purple sage.

Their crushed perfume marked where we had gone

to lie down beneath the dripping trees

and gaze up threw the jewel tipped leaves

to where the silence of mid-summer night

was broken by the soft whisper of the firefly

Brushing its wings against the tear stained sky.