When I was small,

my grandmother dropped penny candles

into blue Mason jars for our tired feet,

lit the steep stairs up from the road

to the house. At the seam-edge of dark,

golden light flumed inside aquamarine glass,

fireflies the size of sparrows

lighting steps stumbling up to warm beds,

to the deep-slumber comfort of grandparents.

Here and now, as western nightfalls

filigree in cathedral light, summer steals

away, all blueberries and honeysuckle.

Oh, how I miss the southern accent of frogs,

the violet sky so pure I can taste you.

A year is nothing, we say, common as oyster shells,

but turn it over, run your thumb over the pearl,

wash it under the tap, let the salt

	fall	

			away.