FIREWORKS 


Not guns, not thunder, but a clutter of clouded drums That announce a fiesta: abruptly, fiery needles Circumscribe on the night boundless chrysanthemums. Softly, they break apart, they flake away, where Darkness, on a svelte hiss, swallows them. Delicate brilliance: a bellflower opens, fades, In a sprinkle of falling stars. Night absorbs them With the sponge of her silence
- (Babette Deutsch)