Out on the porch–the pier,
the night is tinted indigo–violet
and the moon is looking radiant.
You can hear but not see
the fireworks. Instead,
with each explosion, the light
of one or two or three fireflies
among the trees–the reeds,
like sparks freed from smoldering logs,
or the glint of the flames in your love’s eyes,
or in your heart, as you remember
how you watched her watch fire.