Fireflies spark the Minnesota twilight,
     like shavings of campfire flames 
     that float in the night
     as dry firewood shifts and settles. 

I remember a boy I once liked
     trying to catch the fireflies,
     awkwardly throwing his body into the night, laughing.
Another—
     lighting up the twilight with the gleaming end of a hand-rolled cigarette.
And you— 
     throwing your heart into the space between us,
     without thought as to where it might land.  

All becoming is a suffering, says Kierkegaard. 

If love is a flame, the heart is its firewood:
     split open, splintered, seasoned,
     dense with hoped-for future fires of winter nights and summer twilights—
     breaking, becoming.  

You are looking for a match; 
     I look for signs of fire in you.
But no signs are given except the sign of resurrection. 
No guarantees—
     just the faith that love requires.   

Strange how all this becoming has brought me back to this place—
     to this glinting twilight,
     to the truth that I am loved.  

If you will, you can become all flame, says Abba Joseph.

Fireflies spark the Minnesota twilight,
     like shooting stars
     that flit in the night

     as astral dust catches fire.