by Amanda J Cobb
buzzing and darting,
stopping and starting,
little sparks of light
frantic to fill their alotted time
No amount of zipping
and flying and dashing
will silence the undeniable call
that comes with the cold.
One by one the fireflies fall,
to join with the crushed leaves
and trampled grass below,
leaving behind only a fading image
of shooting stars.
And when that fades,
they are as before,
born and swallowed by the world
in the blink of an eye,
as all was or will be:
And so they wait there,
waiting to return,
to fly and rush once again
over the leaves and grass
of the green kingdom they rule.
Until the cold comes calling again.
Posted on 09/20/2002
Copyright © 2020 Amanda J Cobb
|Member Comments on this Poem|
|Posted by Quinn Vokes on 09/25/03 at 07:52 PM|
i love poems about fireflies...even if it is a metaphor. and so well done. i have an idea of what it is, but i won't give that away either;)
|Posted by Max Bouillet on 11/10/03 at 11:53 PM|
I have read and re-read this poem and find it kind of addictive. IMHO, there is much wisdom to be derived from this piece and it has caused many wondrous hours of thought.
|Posted by Deborah S Regan on 01/07/04 at 04:40 PM|
we call 'em lightning bugs around here. but that's not as poetic sounding, is it?
|Posted by Jody Pratt on 02/28/12 at 01:56 AM|
Wonderful metaphor. This could be applied to so many layers of things. The fireflies could be cities of man perhaps, and the "cold" the ongoing and persistent presence of war.