When Mother asks him where he’s been, he’ll tell her
he was busy stealing lightning from a lightning bug.
His fingers will fidget, fumbling anxiously, trying
to keep the light from escaping and she will tell him that
it’s not nice to steal. In turn, he will try to retract
his response or explain, while the colors refract
ff his palm and just lay waiting restless under glass,
anticipating the innocent removal of his hand,
the magician’s great reveal that allows them to escape (although
no one expects it, colors can be quite clever and conniving, too).
With disappointment, Mom will look at him—no words
are necessary with that glare the way she does it—
and he’ll try and try to verbalize the sheer divine
splendor of the epic arc of pigment, spilling every shade
and every hue of every color ever known, that had sprung
up from the same creek where he had once held court. But
he knows she’ll never listen, so he’ll just let the colors go
before he even gets home and then tell her
he was busy stealing lightning from a lightning bug
and let it go.