Sun sets behind the western line,
Night of ebony fog swirls in
So dense that wiggling fingers stay
In front of the face, unseen.
The less-than-a-sliver crescent moon,
In this starless night, seems thin.
A radiant child presses two cupped palms,
A glowing light within.
In this sultry blackness under summer trees
By rivers edge the child
Feels joy poured over like honey sweet
Glimpsing this firefly in the wild.
Hope will come to me like a firefly
In my hour of ebony fog,
Burning with luminosity
From nowhere else but God.
By, Gwendolyn T. Soper