The sleepy Dusk falls gently
upon the weary world;
a fragile chill, light sprinkled,
plays through the heated air;
the sultry breeze kisses the leaves,
soft whispers in subtle harmony
to the cadenced song of the locusts.

As I listen to their song,
my heart drifts slowly backward;
I recall the days of summers past,
spent lounging on the thick, damp grass,
staring up at the purpling sky,
and searching for falling stars
upon which to cast my childish wishes.

I recall the edge of evenings
when the shadows in the trees bore no dangers
greater than the ones my imagination produced,
when the magic of the lightning bugs
filled the woods with fairy stars,
when the sweet chirps of crickets
were symphonies to me.

What a joy to hear the locust song
and feel myself once again
chasing dreams and fairies!
Bare feet scrunching blades of grass,
stardusted eyes searching every shadowed nook,
popsicled fingers tensed for catching
what can never truly be caught.