lampyridae

I suppose I should disclaim the fact

that magic cannot be filtered

like the light it produces,

through the prisms of my lips

or of my pen;

it cannot be captured in

seven-point-one megapixels like

a smile or a laugh or a

small black insect that lights itself on fire

when dusk falls.

Magic appears only when dusk falls,

in the twilight hour between

the sun and the stars;

to see it you cannot be anywhere else.

Magic is for those of us who will

brave the bloodsuckers and the

humid air to lean on fences overlooking fields and

watch its lights rise up. Magic is

eternal and it disregards the passage of time;

every summer in this merry land I see it,

same time and same place.

I cannot ever bring myself to pull myself

off the fence or out of the grass;

I cannot tear my eyes from the fairy lights

in the field.

Magic

is a little black creature

with six spindly legs and

paper-thin wings that

lands on your oustretched fingertips

in evenings. Don't you tell me

magic doesn't exist,

because if that's your claim you have never

seen the proof.

Night falls and magic retreats,

but I stay glued to the fence regardless;

my eyes still searching for the last of its traces

and though I know it has only left until tomorrow evening,

I still ache to see it go.

Goodnight, magic,

and be promised I will not leave

for long.

I suppose I should disclaim the fact

that these words have not done justice

to the magic or the creatures that it

manifests itself in,

and that they will never be enough;

but journey down to this merry land

in summertime,

find a fence and a field and a twilight 

and perhaps you'll understand

why.

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