At their best, these
poems are little love affairs—fireflies
bursting on a night
scene to guide one solo walker
to another for a single
turn around the park
and pause before
the old iron footbridge
to witness
whatever the marsh north
and pond south
might offer up.
When streaks of white
light death (instead
of frenzied fireflies)
interrupt the night
sky, who can say
which way the sun might
set in a hundred years.
Who can say this
is it, or it isn’t
the last chance
to change my mind
about those benefits offered
when only darkness remains.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 