A poem about Fireflies

At nightfall, firefly lights are rising whimsically from the dew-hosed grass.
Vanishing and showing up around there,
Time flashes in and out with their light, suspended in the air among sunset and night.
From cherished, lifelong recollections, measured,
Then supported in half-developed hands, they gleam and make their flight once more,
Singing an enchanted language of light into the evening.

During the day, in the nursery, they stick to stems
Dressed exclusively in their corroded orange and dark,
Deprived of their enchanted powers.
Researchers portray the production of light, how,
From a substance response among luciferin and luciferase,
In the light cells, in the midsection,
Presented to oxygen in a kind of full breath without lungs.
Science and verse don't necessarily in every case blend,
Then now and again they do, similar to oil and vinegar,
Yielding a third mysterious aspect.
Why it happens is a secret, similar to fascination.

Appreciate it uninhibitedly, as a youngster would
On a July night, a delicate breeze,
Hurrying forward and backward among them, shoeless,
The green of the grass, a variety memory in obscurity,
Unmoving white blossoms with their fainter shine, scenting the air,
Tree frogs not surrendering their discussion for the year,
What's more, the quiet lights, alone, then a few together,
Brought up in a soundless tune composed quite a while in the past.