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.