Daniel G. Hoffman
EPHEMERIDAE
Dark specks whirr like lint alive in the sunlight.
The sky above the birches
is
disturbed.
Swarms swarm between pure heaven and treetops:
it's the mayflies' four-hour frenzy before their fall.
Waterward, they lay eggs in their dying
spasms, having then endured it all.
For five long shimmering afternoons that summer
we walked beneath the birchgroves on the shore
and watched the empty light on leaftips pour
and out of nowhere whirled the nebulae,
gadding gilded, all green energy, toward death.
After, the birches stirred, and we beneath
saw south-flying mallards bleak the air.
Green turns husk now. The world's shrunk to the bone.
\
Our thin flesh alone
through this long, cold, fruitless season
scampers frantic in wild whirligig motion
while larvae of the mayfly wait
and mallards migrate and the sap runs slow;
ours alone from time strains to purchase
pleasures mayflies find among the birches.
