I thought you’d like to know it’s snowing,
That the feathery flakes touch upon my eyelashes,
That I suck in the biting air,
That it swirls and descends swiftly from the white veil of heaven,
That it lands softly on my golden curls and melts into my tears.
You always said you wanted to live,
To feel the whirling wind surging,
Feathery cotton embedding itself in your ears,
Smiles dancing and gazing upward.
It’s so beautiful;
You’ll see it soon.
I’m worried you’ll miss the snow.
The powdery flurries are vanishing.
My rosy cheeks are dry by now.
Where are your brown eyes reflecting it all?
The firefly’s iridescent glow blazed in her hands.
It buzzed; it hummed on her still palm.
Was it immoral to capture such a pure creature?
But all she desired was to look upon its fiery soul in awe.
To watch the luminescent yellow flash in unison with the stars above.
Against the curtain of night, thick with the aroma of damp soil and blooming flora.
Of blood-red roses that dripped and cascaded as water from a fall.
A fall of the Angels from Heaven.
With the dew clinging to their sheen bodies
And the clouds weaving through their flaxen wings.
Ari-el, the lion of the Lord, Ari-el whose name rolled off her tongue, smooth and velvety.
Both wild and tame.
Like sand pounded by the shores of the far-reaching sea.
Compressed to form emerald glass within the heat of deep fissures.
Bubbling, oozing, spewing.
Glowing brilliantly in the murky trench.
Expanding and alighting.
Sparks of life illuminating the hushed universe.
Sparks of light illuminating the shadows swaying against her skin.
Before fluttering away, frivolously; fleetingly into the void.
The Firefly is a combination of literary devices from different high modernist writers. T.S. Eliot’s beautiful, yet mundane descriptions, Pound, Doolittle, and Lowell’s imagery, Joyce’s epiphany’s, and Woolf’s depiction of thought process, are all included in this poem.