Sonnet #171

Fireflies and certain birds, to me, 

resemble souls, the flash of color

in twilight dark, where cardinals hover

in the green, like discovering the holy:

A whistling meteor of love sought

If bugs can feel a kind of love

If an insect feels more than shove

and push and live and eat and ought

to know the eggs they leave will

be their legacy among the rotting wood

The soul of them, the spark that stills

the hearts of children, gathering good

Dancing in the night grass, they will

clap their hands, and shriek at starlight blood