to live, one day only
the water undulated, like dripping ice
cream in summer — maybe spring — sliding
towards the mushy ground.
alike the glow of camp’s fire, flickering —
maybe, gently — mayflies’ wings fluttered and
laid rest on each other. body asleep on another.
zephyrs give a kiss to the water’s body. they
blow the rested flies named may,
while summer/spring’s heat perpetuates.
so close to resembling fire’s kill for roots
woven in soil, is the thread for the life
of mayflies — in danger, from dear themselves.
and their mother’s love will descend,
take her children into her hands in hopes
that mayflies won’t die in a day.
