Fireflies
from the Enchanted Mountains
come through the screen
and settle on my shirt
here in my study
my qin and books grow cold
outside, above the eaves,
they are hard to tell from the stars
they sail above the well
each one reflecting a mate
in the garden they pass chrysanthemums
flares of color against the dark
white-haired and sad
I try to read their code
will I be here next year
to watch them?