Writing is

fingers hunched over black plastic keys
palms curved,
perspiring

waiting
for words to come
hovering
left then right then left then--

reach!

Pulses of light dance
flickering
up from the shadows of my mind’s backyard.

Words are fireflies
and I,
a child in the summer dusk

stretching
lunging
grasping--

one.

How many can I catch before bedtime?