Junebugs

These are the days of citronella candles, sweet corn, chlorine stiff hair, and junebugs. My family and I spend our nights under a ceiling of stars, in baggy clothes, drinking in these long days between starting summer jobs and finishing school. 
Yesterday night, the June bugs arrived in droves. As I sat on our deck, I sipped lemonade and watched the huge  awkward bugs flap furiously toward the porch light, the only light shining in the darkening night. 
One by one, they hurry at the beautiful light and one by one they slam into the siding and fall; landing on their backs  and flailing helplessly until they grow tired and give up. They watch those in front, see the siding, but the light is just too captivating. And so they die. The lesson is clear, the consequences deadly, but their perspective is wrong, and so they die.
So is our human romance with the things of this world. How beautiful they are, how captivating. 
If we could only reach that lovely light, how perfect our lives would be. One by one we run blindly, ignoring the carnage below us. And so we die. Die to the heavenly and the subtle. 
Are we so small minded? So easily wooed? There must be more than this deadly light that only warms us until it burns us.