THE MAYFLY

He was almost one day old
(both of us were past our prime)

After one exceptional look
at his diaphanous wings

just seconds before he took off
and disappeared into the woods,

I stared from pond grass and understood.
(He never had one, and I'm too old

to have a taut illusion in a suit
demand I stop commerce with insects)

It took years and years of saving
spiders from a biped's shoe

(I'd take a cup from the cooler
and let my distant eight-eyed cousins go)

Took years of saving night crawlers
upon asphalt after rain to figure out

every mayfly knows what I knew
for nine months before my first cry

THAT combined with life and love
is all we need know. Fungus,

locusts, dung, cyanobacteria
--all fit in at last--lichen, trees,

bees; a mayfly; a man, fire
ants crossing a river of mulch.

First appeared in
Tribeca Poetry Review