Seraphim
The fire flies are out and the air heavy with summer.
The trees silhouette against the bruising sky. Still
there’s so much light at night, I don’t need their fire.
I want them in winter, when the nights start too soon,
stretch outward like a tar road, a blackened tongue,
when the sharp frost numbs the scent of earth and rain.
I need them to light my way through that bitter cold
to beacon like stars even when the sky is fleeced with snow.
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