A poem on the occasion of the 4th of July
The bee balm are bursting in air—
fireworks above the bright stars
of evening primrose. At dusk fireflies
flare up like breaths of economy
among these bulwarks
of gallantly parading flowers.
What madness to erupt and effuse
for hours, even days on end
the fireflies seem to say as they
hold then release their neon light.
Oh, which is right?
The greed I feel for
the glare of light now, all—
or the occasional throbbing of it, in its
transience, like the firefly’s?