fireflies/lightning bugs 

I.
you tell me that you snuck down to the park
to catch fireflies. all rising from the grass
like white/yellow-glowing match-stick heads. 
what else are fireflies like? i won't do them 
the disservice of calling them stars
again. the street lights have dulled the night sky
around here-- are the fireflies making up for it?
trying desperately to re-make a tired heaven.
they're probably sick of that, of being stars for us. 
did you catch them in your cupped hands or try to fill your
pockets? did they follow you home like disciples?
all twelve hundred of them, taking off their sandals &
tossing them in the creek.

II.
i tell you about the fields around my house 
& how they fill up with thousands of lightning bugs. 
paper lantern bodies, my hands out the jeep window. 
i'm casting out a fisherman's net to reel them all in for us.
walk on water & soybean. i'll bare my feet & wash them
in June. did i ever tell you about the coyote's hand
in making the solar system? how he was impatient
with god's meticulous stare arranging & scattered them.
we're lucky for tricksters. i imagine the lightning bugs 
are the bodies of handmaidens, come back to adjust 
the position of celestial bodies & flesh bound bodies.
in my own yard the lightning bugs always seemed to 
escape in the grass. will you meet me there as small
as you can? between grass blades oak tree tall?