I am going to work on rewriting this original poem from my point of view as a child vs. me, an adult looking back....
Lightning bugs
ephemeral beacons of time passed
seducing you back
to garden hose waterfalls
cascading down hot tin slides.
And snow cones were best
icy with syrup
melting the wax paper cone
as you slurped your last sip.
While June bugs clung to back porch screen doors
curled arthritic in their grip
undaunted by slams
that punctuated barefoot squeals
in Off perfumed air
to catch moments of fairy dust
released only in darkness
and magic was real.
Lightning bugs
ephemeral beacons of time passed
seducing you back
to garden hose waterfalls
cascading down hot tin slides.
And snow cones were best
icy with syrup
melting the wax paper cone
as you slurped your last sip.
While June bugs clung to back porch screen doors
curled arthritic in their grip
undaunted by slams
that punctuated barefoot squeals
in Off perfumed air
to catch moments of fairy dust
released only in darkness
and magic was real.