The night is thick —
air heavy, unmoving,
too hot for sleep or dreams.
I sit at the open window,
shirt clinging, sweat tracing
the slope of my neck.

Some poet of longing
once wrote that we must reach for the stars,
as if our hope is only worthy
when cast across impossible distances.

But what can such reaching offer,
where cold light hangs indifferent
in vaults too vast for touch or tether?
There is a distance between us —
me in my small room,
the stars strung far beyond even prayer.

I look down toward the meadow,
where wild grasses — bluestem,
switchgrass, and the soft heads of daisies —
stand still in the midnight.
Through their slender stalks they come:
small ones,
threading the hush between my pulse and the silent heavens.

Fireflies — a communion of patient lights
blink and weave,
not demanding ascent or effort,
carrying their message with no conditions.
They seem to say,
since you did not go to the stars,
we have come to you.
I believe them.

The darkness will not overcome —
not tonight,
not while these gentle, winged embers
rise, and promise the quiet hope
of light.