I settle onto the whicker chaise
as sun bids adieu to the day
and the moon whispers bonjour
from its celestial home.
Waiting for beacons
of the night to emerge
I become anxious as night darkens
and only the streetlamp sheds light.
Three nights I have seached,
yet there are no fireflies this year
as the earth and gardens have dried
becoming deserts of skeleton sticks.
I have lived for decades and this year
is the first without summer beacons,
where we curse the endless fall of snow,
but now it is barren and wanting of moisture
If this is the way of climate change
I feel for the children, and their children
when a simple joy of chasing fireflies
becomes a memory of their ancestors.