Since I have more than one grandchild, five to be exact, I thought I'd reprint a poem written years ago to balance the one about the grandson in London. This granddaughter is planning on entering Law School in the fall. None of them stays little for long.
Fireflies
(or Elizabeth at Six)
On a muggy Indiana night
my granddaughter filled her hand
still sticky from cobbler
with sluggish bugs blinking their way
above new mown grass.
Her fist clamped tight.
Sent to wash off the gooey mess
she pouted in protest, unfurled her fingers,
and loosed nine tiny twinkling lights
like a handful of stardust onto the breeze.
Not an injured wing among them.
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
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