Text
I’ve never been a good storyteller,
too wrapped up in all the glimmering details.
I retell memories or moments in
magnificent minutiae.
The way a child sputters about
their first dandelion poof.
Each seed twirling like a ballerina,
catching rays in its whisps.
Too young to hope for wishes granted or
dreams planted to be nurtured.
Only fields for fireflies to finally have a dance floor.
Bouncing from bloom to bloom
letting loose their firefly frets.
And when asked about said dandelion,
I reply, “this, this here,
is a disco ball made so fireflies always
have a reminder of how bright they shine.”