This year on the 4th of July,
I sat in the grass,
and listened to fireworks I could hear,
but not see.
I searched over treetops and rooftops,
But the sky was empty.
Yet the sound came from all directions,
popping and whirring,
bouncing off street signs and lawn chairs before finding their way to me,
alone in my front yard,
thinking back to what this day used to be.
It was hands coated in snowcone syrup leaving prints on plastic table cloths and
patriotic facepaint melting down my cheeks from the heat.
It was using sparklers to draw lines of fleeting light into the sky and
throwing ice from the coolers at my siblings as they walked passed.
It was childhood,
comfort,
home.
And there,
lost in the past,
sitting in the grass listening to fireworks I could hear,
but not see,
I was bombarded by a wave of melancholy,
coming in time with every vibration that reached my ears.
I was struck with a sense of loss,
of closed doors leading to a room without any exits.
I was hit by the nauseating sensation of being held down,
of being painfully present in the here and now,
like being dragged down to the ocean floor,
struggling and fighting,
clinging to the memories of swimming by the shore.
In this grief which rested and curled in my chest,
I looked again up to the sky,
hoping,
praying,
to see the fireworks I could already hear,
to see the closed door open back up behind me,
to see the shore once again,
but I didn’t.
I began to surrender to my anguish,
heed to my unhappiness,
and then I saw them.
Small lights sprouting into existence for just a second before disappearing,
like a single flicker of a candle flame before it goes out.
One in the grass,
one next to my neighbors house,
another floating just a few feet in front of my face.
Fireflies.
I hadn’t seen them before,
not once in my 17 years of life,
not during any of the dozen 4th of July’s I’ve had,
not at the ones with snowcones,
or sparklers,
or fireworks I could both hear and see.
Fireflies were new,
different,
beautiful.
This year on the 4th of July,
I sat in the grass
and watched fireflies dance across the landscape of the present,
while the sounds of fireworks washed over me from somewhere beyond the horizon,
from a place I used to call home.
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This poem hit me in that quiet place you don’t realize is bruised until someone presses gently on it. I came into it expecting something nostalgic or patriotic, but what I got was something so much deeper—a quiet grief that’s not about losing a person, but about losing a time, a feeling, a version of yourself.
The contrast between what the day used to mean and what it is now is done so subtly. Fireworks you can hear but not see—that line will stay with me. It’s such a perfect image of disconnection, of how something can still exist but no longer belong to you. The poet doesn’t over-explain anything; instead, we’re allowed to feel that gap between past and present for ourselves. That silence between the popping sounds becomes its own kind of loud.
But then… the fireflies. Their appearance was such a beautiful turning point. The way they sneak in—new, soft, glowing—was hopeful without being cheesy. They’re not fireworks, but they’re something. They ask us, gently: What if new magic can appear where old magic has faded?
Still, I was left wondering one thing—and it’s the question that’s been lingering with me ever since I read it:
What changed?
The poem tells us that this 4th of July was different, that the sky was empty, the friends and family absent, the joy gone. But it never says why. Did the speaker grow up? Did someone die? Did the town stop putting on fireworks? Or has something changed within them?
That’s the unsolved question that made this poem stick with me. It’s not just about memory—it’s about an invisible shift, and that mystery adds a layer of emotional weight. It's like the silence beneath the fireworks: you can't see it, but you can feel it.
Overall, this poem doesn’t try to be profound—it just is. It’s personal, yet universal. Grieving and healing at the same time. If growing up feels like listening to fireworks you can’t see anymore, then fireflies remind us there’s still something to see, even if it’s smaller, quieter, and totally different from what we expected.
I'm smiling so hard rn cause you literally got the exact feeling I was going for. Quiet grief, healing and finding new joy to the soundtrack of faded memories and fireworks you can hear, but not see.
Also your review ITSELF is so gorgeously written and I can tell you're an awesome writer just from that! Thank you so much for the review and your kind words. I'm glad my work could touch you in some way!
Hi there @emilyrebecca, this was a beautiful piece of poetry. I'm not from the states so I might be wrong, but I think it is related to the US inpedependance day? My interpretation is that you felt a lose of freedom, nostalgia on how things used to be. Fleeting sense of resistance that goes on and off again and again- like the light of fireflies. Correct me if I'm wrong here pls ^-^
Anyways, thank you for sharing your work, it is beautiful.
Hi, Thank you so much for the review! Yes, it is about US independence Day, I thought about putting that in the description but I forgot to.