I lit a sparkler in my backyard during the shift change between day and night.
Commemorating something that hardly mattered.
It spat out half-glorious light into the dried leaves.
The leaves were offended by the ways the light
barely singed their crackled, weakened flames.
"What sort of fire doesn't burn what it touches?"
They asked me.
I was not surprised by this question; it is one that
had also crossed my mind.
I did not answer because it would look strange to talk to a bunch of dried leaves.
The sparkler's faded brilliance dimmed even further.
Exerted itself in a pathetic display of broken fits of excitement.
Wore itself out.
I stood
with the leaves
felt the new night's air
found myself wishing for a fire
that would leave some sort of lasting impact
to mark this occasion.
