Fireflies

Fireflies

When I was young and without fear
my father once said
that the night sky in Central Park was thick with
fireflies.
It was like walking in a meteor shower, he said.
The humid air was so heavy with them
that they precipitated out of the summer sky
onto the warm pavement where they were
crushed into glowing dust
under the heels of careless Aristocrats and Beggars
that walked in the park at dusk.

That was a long time ago.
Now
As you and I sit and eat strips of
chicken and drink warm iced tea
on the grass of Central Park
in late September
I realize the dark sky is
Empty.
No softly drifting emerald globes on
lazy and metallic evening winds.
They are all gone.
But you did not care about this.
You had never seen anything
but the amber glow of
the city.

So when the single brief pulse of green broke the dark
rising up to the skyscrapers
like an ember from a fire
extinguished aeons ago—
I smiled.
I knew they would
return.

Nice sentimental ring to it, but not to awash in it. But if I were you, I would move the word "with" from the end of the third line to the front of the fourth line, so it will read "with fireflies" and the third line will end with "thick".

I always read poems out loud (or at least under my breath) and it just sounded better that way. But that is just my opinion. Good work.

Sparks of memory from happier days gone by.

Thank you for your poem.