The sparks came as a phoenix-flower in the night. How its petals leapt and died, only to leap again! Perhaps its summer season was only a minute or so, but in our memories it was a sweet eternity. Then, one more it was blackest night, for such things aren’t born to last. Once it was gone I savoured the gunpowder scent and the kiss of coolest November air, until my goosebumps skin let me know it was time to seek the warmth of home.
Sparks flare as a thousand dreams of yesteryear reborn as fireflies.
From nature's wood sprung the sparks, dancing embers of energetic flame - those tiny firefly-lights that danced until they were an enchanting grey.
It is in the nature of the spark to ignite the moment.
Sparks came of orange-gold, dancing in their carefree way, before taking their bow as they became her cinders.
From the river-flame that knew not gravity, came the spark that assumed its right to fly.