Summer comes south
with fireflies in her hair—
wonderful little flying machines
propelled here and there on tiny wings.
 
If you want, you can capture them;
they really don't resist—
and watch them crawl busily
over your hands and wrists.
 
Just when you’ve concluded
they're pretty plain and ordinary—
they pump jet fuel into their butts
and prove they're quite extraordinary.
 
Even more remarkable,
they’re often very likeable—
for insects that is—
but when you get really close,
they can smell pretty gross.

What finally won me over though,
were their sparkling lights
on summer nights
and the gratitude they show,
when you finally let them go.

There was one I called Michelangelo,
that I considered special;
his antics were unique;
he stood out from his comrades
who just blinked erratically
in firefly speak.

Mick couldn't hammer marble,
but he still put on quite a show,
making geometric figures glow
in the dark in a perfect yellow ark.
 
When in chilly autumn skies
he gave his final bows,
I felt un- expected moisture oome
into my eyes.

Firefly artists are,
you see,
as unique as you and I,
and to boot they don’t need airplanes
to fly across the sky.