Fireworks
They come from all over town to gather in hoards. Carrying waterproofed and heat-insulated tarps, tubs of Cool Whip and light beer, hundreds pack into several acres of un-ownable riverfront property. The American public, the tourists: the spectators. In droves, they come with tailgates and coolers packed to a capacity suitable for the apocalypse. Hours pass, and the first weak nibbles of cool air on human flesh send them receding into campers and polar-fleece bundles. A brilliant half moon offers conflict for feeble minds. Boom. One heavy resound indicates a replacement of the illicit bottle-rockets with the annual riverfront display. Sent up slowly at first, the pinks and neon greens briefly light up the blackening backdrop. If only we could see the stars… Spiraling skyward with subtle pirouettes, the dizzying motion does little of what it used to in building the crowds anticipation. They all seem somehow sedated by an intoxicating indifference. Light sprawls out in every-which-way, displaying hues to dazzle. Some send out golden wishes on wings of shooting stars, while others combust in seducing shades of scarlet only to fade hastily in the twilight. The more hackneyed wishes crackle, while the freshly hatched whims dissipate with nary a sound. Green and yellow fireflies scurry frantically, as if to seek shelter from prying eyes behind luminescent cornels of popcorn. Some glow brightly as city lights, grounded stars, while others glitter with lingering faerie dust. Smoke hovers in heart shapes in the interim of explosions. Each symmetrical silhouette brings a sweet melancholy shadow to those below: those who breath lonely with empty rooms where chests would be. Deep purple gems appear just long enough to enchant, before fleeing as if to indicate the impermanence of our dreams. I can hardly tune out the idle chatter and clashing music long enough to muse upon these manmade stars. The crowd had waited for hours…yet somehow, in the midst of their celebration they were left thinking of dropped phone calls, misplaces glasses, low-carb sodas and other worldly troubles. It seemed that to them this ethereal display was tantamount to the summers’ greatest commercial break. Only for a set of moments, the sheer wonder of it all is enough to override the weighty symbolism of bombs bursting in air. One after another they came, overlapping almost into one. Who would have thought the greatest beauty would indicate the end? Finale. Shhh, don’t breathe. You’ll only miss it. Widen your eyes. Just try and take it in, just you try. Somehow we’ll all forget about this in moments. The light will fade from our burning retinas, and our eyes will lay lethargic and pacified, dormant until next years feast. Those with sensitivity will see each bitterly poignant memory of their love reflected back at them in these final blooms of light, just before they wilt. Fade, fall, fizzle. From the looks of it, not a soul sits still long enough to hear the last soaring echo, or to watch the leftover glimmers diminish in their own July atmosphere. A sweet smelling smoke hangs on humid evening…but you know what? No one can reach their car fast enough. They must have somewhere better to be…of course they do. Happy Independence Day. Now I will be content to gaze at the insides of my eyelids. Poetry in seven hues will show me a dance, and if I’m lucky I’ll learn the steps. Star~bound.
~ayla (On the back of a motorbike, with your arms outstretched trying to take flight, leaving everything behinde. But even at our swiftest speed, we couldn't break from the concrete in the city where we still reside.)
~ayla (On the back of a motorbike, with your arms outstretched trying to take flight, leaving everything behinde. But even at our swiftest speed, we couldn't break from the concrete in the city where we still reside.)