Most miracles
be small—
lightning bugs
flicking off
& on
in the dusk before
the storm, hoping
to be caught
by fire
& each other.
Instead, children
capture them winking
in jars once
filled with pennies
or peaches put away
for winter, this waning light
they drown in
without the air
they are
meant for.
In this heat
little keeps—
see how your hat
wilts, held
over your heart to honor
today the dead
who cannot say, yet still
share your name.