Look at them out there this first
fifty-plus sunny day, fools
on rollerblades and bikes, coats
unbuttoned and flapping a full week
before the equinox even though tomorrow
will bring crystalline frozen drizzle.
For a species that invented roofs,
why should weather matter?
They think all this is for them:
lilies piercing mud, ganglia-lined twigs,
afternoon's excessive light.
My hearth and cup of cocoa call me
into the cool safety of hut and shadow
away from a cycle green as my skin.
Tonight let me dream the bliss of my heart:
a bitter past, its last patches of dirty snow.
Last night when the power went out
I flashlit my way to the back door
where emergency fireflies hovered waiting
to be let in, a cloud of sporadic
blinkers who dispersed as insects will:
lining the shade of my reading lamp,
dancing like pixies on the t.v. screen,
whirling the fan blades dizzy.
A few solitary types perched on LEDs
so that my house looked winkingly
the same, a tad greenish, the refrigerator
humlessly hoarding its gifts.
Until the electric company worked
its utilitarian magic, I could read a book
and cast my shadow on and off
with no carbon footprint. Soon I swayed
in rhythm with their flashing.
Four of the finest landed on my chest
to listen with bellies simpatico aglow.
My heart needed only a little urging.
Their feelers, night's bio light,
you too you too you too.