Firefly

the lawn cutters come

one day each week

and repeat the mow

from the week before

what day is it you wonder

what does it matter any more

in august firefly season ends

yet in a patch of brush

tangled beneath the windbreak

one small green beacon

forges on for just

a few more solitary nights

pulsing like the rhythm

of a faltering heart

it drifts blinks

intermittently to ask

the same question

at the end of these

long summer days

you are left to ask