The Night The Crickets Sang

In a chamber of memory, not often explored,
there lives a night when the crickets sang,
a sweet summer night with lilacs in bloom
and the chatter of children as they played in the dark,
their firefly jars lighting the way for young soldiers
who laughed as they marched off to war.

But even strong soldiers grow weary at night,
and soon each was opening his old Mason jar
and releasing her fireflies, a curtain of light,
dancing and swirling, amorphous delight.
I watched as each porch light went out
one by one and a hush fell over the empty street.

And as my head touched the cool pillowcase,
at the moment when Sleep placed her hand on my brow,
somewhere deep in the sacred silence of night
a despondent cry, painfully clear,
shattered the dreams of the sleeping child.
A wandering creature, fearful and lost
in the maze of abandoned love,
howled at the stars, bayed at the moon
in hopes of hearing someone call its name
and guide it gently to the safety of home.

I felt my heart beat hard in my chest
and I wept for the helpless abandoned, alone.
How can I sleep in this comfortable bed,
how can peace fill my hours till morning arrives
when a helpless creature whimpers alone,
hopeless and broken by no fault of its own
on this remarkable night when the crickets sang out
and the universe heard one little voice
asking the way to come home.