May Fly

Ephemoroptera. Your short, fleeting life. Born to a clean Spring world. Burst forth and mate, never quite feed (on sustenance, or time, or love). To die in one sun. How I long for your experience, yet already understand. Life, ephemeral, passionate, ending in a futile attempt to more than exist.

Fleeting, fragile nymph-ish corpses blowing along on gossamer wings, angels of the day. Passionate candles of a June wind. Pesty little things. What is the meaning?

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Don't Touch My Junk

Adventures in waiting around

Hello Again