Magic

A bell jar filled with twigs and blades of grass

and the hole marked lid—a residence

just waiting for an occupant or two.

As dusk arrived they came out glowing

and lighting up the evening.

They seemed to vainly be trying to replace

the sun or the moon or maybe

the stars, but to us they were pure

magic.

Catching them was a game;

we’d see who could catch the most

or who would catch one first.

We played until our mothers called us in,

and even then we’d stall for a half hour

just to savor the perfect

magic

that made up those summer nites of our youth.

Deep inside we somehow knew this time was fading fast;

enjoying it to the fullest was our duty.

Remember the thrill of seeing the glow in the jar—like

we’d captured a bit of

magic

that no one else had. Yet before we’d go in

that guilty feeling would build up and

overwhelm us so we let the little guys, or little girls, go.

Because we realized that we couldn’t be selfish;

no, everyone should be able to share in the

magic.

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