If there was a firefly to linger
as the sparks fade into stars
perhaps I would not
think of hope as a flighty
and iridescent stranger.
But I lie,
for that is my curse — to hope
despite the fading vistas of
my dreams, and the rain
which erases the directions
that I drew on the sidewalk.
The pep-talk’s in poetry —
and the blue of the forget-me-not
still hopes — though forgotten.
And I, if God himself lost sight of me,
perhaps I would yet believe
in miracles, whatever they are,
and that sparks are fireflies — are stars.
Written April 2013, Emma Dumitra.
Image from science.howstuffworks.com.