In the twilight I wait for fireflies.
Scanning the edge of my yard 
I watch for the gentle flicker of their lanterns
Sharing secrets embedded within luminous morse code
I wait for them to light a path for you.

I look out toward the fading garden
At the peonies that have closed up for the night.
I think I can see you sitting among them
prying open their delicate heads 
checking for ants trapped inside
Just like you did when we were small
during humid days elongated by the Spring equinox.

As burnt sienna fades into midnight blue,
So does your ephemeral specter in the garden.
but the fireflies, they do not come.
Only bats 
dancing wildly against the backdrop of a mature silver maple.
They are guided by sound, not sight.

I have heard that pesticides and light pollution are responsible for their absence.
If they are gone, how will you find your way home?