Drifting Fireflies (poem rough draft)

Sitting round a fire
on an unusually cool August night.
Flames dance—
Nature’s wild waltz.
Turns the once verdant greenery of an overrun backyard,
now dry and dead
like the remainder of my Summer days,
into a cascading procession of gray ash
that falls upward into the air—
a circling whir of fireflies—
and arcs downward like snow
on a peaceful winter’s eve.

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