Nymphs

Dawn

not unlike the rose-tipped

deity of Grecian fame,

with its golden shafts a-flickering

like sparks lost in a flame,

and from glassy tombs they rise anew,

the fervent worshippers embrace

the light, among which fly a few,

and more crawl forth in sleepy mounds

as dawn turns into

 

Noon and the worshippers rise in sprawling swarms,

tumbling in their drunken orgies,

great buzzing droves in off-white storms

legs flailing, wings beating in

frenzied momentum, the seed of

life mingling amidst the whirring din

of a thousand wings, the flurry swift

no time to feed, no time to fight,

for they know noon fades to sacred

​

Night with it the revelry begins to falter,

thick pallets line the murky lake,

as bodies pile below the altar,

and stragglers hover, trailing, weak

prey to the gasping mouths of

carp, tucked inside the furry cheek

of an idle bat who skims the waters,

yet none do fret, for ‘neath the mud

lie multitudes of sons and daughters,

to spark the cycle once again

come next mayfly summer.