The aroma of moss

in hot heavy air

sends me spiraling  back

to summer nights

years past.

Peeling paint on a long ago

back porch.

The creak and scrape of

the porch glider.

Yellow metal warm beneath bare legs.

A young girl

and

an empty mason jar with

holes punched in the lid.

Awaiting fireflies.

About this poem:     I remember summer nights spent at my grandparents house.   Hot , humid nights and a moss covered bank behind the house always had that heavy mossy smell.   Always an empty mason jar for me to use.    Recently I walked onto my screened porch and a sensory memory, the smell of moss in the humid air,  took me right back to those nights.    The image in the post is not mine but holds a little bit of the magic  I remember feeling while watching fireflies.