Mayday

[Truerenigma]

My voice takes refuge at nightfall,
mute in the dimness under the yews,
spirited away in minute rouge berries.

Spirited away doesn’t seem to do much here. We talking about a voice that has been traveling all day and now has settled in, but wait, it’s going somewhere? It’s also cliche, abstract, and not that interesting.

It's flame is concealed in the abdomens
of fireflies, smoldering with luciferase,
hovering above dew on the rye.

C’mon its. No apostrophe. You could use “it’s” and remove the “is” if you wanted, that would be an interesting metaphor--the voice as a flame, rather than having a flame.

My imagination is nebulous beneath
the pond’s algal cloak, quiescent
with timid fish among the reeds.

I need

one berry of a chance,
a single bioluminescent photon
or musing minnow
to nibble at my trolling lines.

Necessity begs illumination
to clarify this tarnished eve,
for she is slowly graying;
almost out of view
and reach.

I think there are a lot of interesting ideas here. What it mostly lacks is a connecting narrative to give us a sense of the place all these things are in.