these mayflies

they danced lightly all about me

as if ballerina fairies,

these mayflies who came my way,

these dainty wisps of momentary life,

swirling in the newborn air

of an early, early spring,

in that virgin air that still has that earthy Eden scent

of meadow grass in its first blush of green,

as it peeks and sneaks into its coming life

venturing out of the maternal soil,

the lush, sweet soil still moist from winter.

the mayflies by the hundreds

search for what they are meant to do,

here and there,

maybe this, maybe that,

asking each other,

now and again,

"why are we here, does anybody know?"

sometimes they venture off in many different flights,

explorations of possibilities,

with absolutely no sensibilities,

to the invisible boundary near the split-rail fence,

some do go,

to the cold, cold stream of melted snow,

some do go,

to the tar paper shed.

to the broken down Ford,

some do go,

but, in the end,

they all second guess themselves,

the mayflies,

they all return

to the comfort of the frolicking swarm,

tumbling over one another

to be far more together

than they ever were apart,

these mayflies

who dance in the air.

 

 

 

The End

2 comments about this poem Feed