The point being when a star dies
the light continues for years
yet illuminates nothing here,
not the cottage edging the lakeshore,
which from this distance
is not lit, but marked, by its light;
the same way the firefly suddenly starring
my windshield illuminates neither
the dark highway or splattered window,
but only its own small deathplace.
I observe how its light
doesn’t vanish or dim immediately,
but shrinks slowly, as if receding.
My sadness for the firefly blooms larger and darker
than I can fathom, drawing the no I’d use
for human loss, but dwindling with realization
at the cry’s end. The point being
that the light lives on…
and that it disappears.