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.
© Michelle Post
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