Dad supervised our use of Sparklers, Poppers,
Snappers. Outside on the sidewalk.
Rockets and Twinkling Stars, only for my big brother
to fire off.
Dad warned us of the dangers. Fingers blown off.
Eyes taken out. The smoke coiled into my nose.
Sulfur.
Used to be, I watched the parade of kids
on their decorated bikes around the neighborhood park
before the picnic there. Tapped beer. The tables
of pulled pork, potato salad, three-bean salad,
cupcakes, ice cream. Families and friends.
Like clans on blankets spread in small continents. Now
it’s difficult for my aging joints to haul the goods,
get up and off the ground, take the heat.
Then Fire in the Skies. Plumbs of colors. Explosions.
Popular music blasting. Born in the USA.
America the Beautiful. The Star-Spangled Banner.
I bought a butterfly pin displaying the American flag.
Mom always taught not to wear the flag. But to
Respect it.
Used to be, we could spread our blankets
right beneath the displays. The screaming streaming
of Whistle Stops, Crossettes, Horsetails, Diadems.
Sadly, today, all I can think of is drones. Tracer shots.
Used to be, on our walks home after the fireworks,
we took the Katy Trail. In the wet brush, the fireflies
flickered in the thousands. Tonight, we’ll leave
the city lights. Take a night drive to witness
Nature’s firefly display. Silent. Gentle.
Brilliant. Healing.
© Barbara Leonhard
Extraordinary Sunshine Weaver 
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