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Popping Lights

by Valerie Luetke

My papa took me to pop,
pop the lights that he had hung,
to pinch ‘em in my fingers,
even when it stung.
He taught me how to squeeze,
squeeze out their glinting gleam,
to see ‘em burst and flash,
send out their final beam.
He showed me the way to watch,
watch as their sparkles would spray,
reflected on the wet tile,
a small sun's last ray.
He explained how to embrace,
embrace the sombre nothing,
an empty void where light was,
‘till dark we did bring.
Along the rows we would move,
move with twinkles in our wake,
popping lumières de Noël,
a sight we did make.