For my Beautiful son, Brandon br br br (Brandon, the world br depends on the existence of fire flies, br the simple kindness towards lesser things, br the magnanimity, the compassion br of not taking life simply because you can.) br br Out playing with my son br in the day-dwindled dark br among the autumn leaves, br an enshrined firefly br cupped in the apse of my palm, br I stoop closer to show him br its brief luminosity like an halo, br a prayer candle in the breeze br its flame, flickering br in the grotto of my hands. br br Suddenly, a swipe of the hand, br and the fall begins br with a child's first cruelty br and here we stand, guilty br by the depth of your stroke br that felled a star and made the sky dark br but for the full moons of your eyes br br What shall I say to you now, br that you are only two br and your years thus far br have been but the calculation br of constants br like your parents, fixed planets, br fingering the flora of your golden hair br as they revolved about you. br br This is the father’s dilemma, br whether to dispel as rumour br the faith in fairy tales and fire flies br to head off the terror br of learning on your own br that the world has no morals, br nature no ethics br steel you for a life of brutality br make you a bully, br br Or nurture that spark of gentlenesss br as your jaw drops br at the that last spot of phosphor on your shoe, br and the glow of a firefly br dissapearing beneath the blades br like the sun going down on us both. br br It is the end of the day, summer, br and the innocence of your ways.