the mayflies and the apple blossoms

A certain sadness
to slow us down,
is that what it takes?

Or a gem in the road,
and for a moment,
without question,

We give thanks
or not. Today
the apple trees seem full in bloom
as if suddenly—and wasn’t yesterday a different story?

Of course, my heart swelled in joy for them
and sunk, too,  as a frost will be coming late
this week.  Had they not known the weather, had they not known
to trust some wisdom of the old farmers: to wait?

Should I be the one to suggest
anything—how quickly I am the one to reach my hands
into other low branches,  grasping for some fruit,
even before ready?

What is it about us blossoming
budding, emergent beings,
that only ever open for a short while,
that only ever think of life in regards to hunger?

The mayflies, for one, know how life is
short-lived yet just enough time.
After years under rocks they make their first breath, quickly

Into the air yet not without wonder
of this existence of a god or of a little faith in the unknown.
But for you, your search replaced your hunger

And today, I had found you huddled and weeping
around some hundreds of dead or dancing bodies,
near the bright light coming from a window, asking
if this is all the world has to offer?

But how could this be?
Wasn’t it just yesterday
you were full of answers and blooming?

I asked you what you wished for,
direction, you replied as if without question.
Then who’s direction did you take

Not as to doubt but to consider,
how much it means to place some trust
in what we don’t know right now:

where does it come from,
and why does it ever leave us,
those answers to the hopeless?

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