The Ground is Rough Where She Goes

The ground is rough where she goes,
but she goes lightly.
Indeed, it is impossible to see her proceeding
other than at a skip. Surely she is a firefly whose light
enchants me. Each blink shows what looping run
of fancy she's essayed,
and at each dark I wonder in what unexpected place
I'll see her spark again.
Climb the summer night, my own;
never will there be a jar for you.

April 3 2009