May Flies and it's June!

Mayfly Day
(by Jeanne Willis and Tony Ross)

Here is Mayfly,
It is her first day on earth.
It is also her last.
Mayflies only live for one day.
But is she sad?
Not at all.
She is happy to be alive!

This isn't any old day.
This is the best of days.
She lives for each moment.
She sees the world begin,
She hears the crack of dawn.
And bathes in its golden glow.
A billion buds burst open.
All for her!
She tastes her honey.

Mayfly sees eggs hatch.
Babies born.
Lambs learning to stand.
The business of ants.
The dizziness of children...
The loveliness of things.
She feels the sun's warm hug.
The kiss of summer rain.
The magic of the rainbow.

It is her wedding day.
Trees throw confetti.
There are games on the lawn.
Breezes blow,
bells chime.
Birds sing!
She dances to the music of the universe.

Mayfly lays her eggs.
It is a peaceful night.
The best of nights.
She makes one last wish:
'Little ones, may all your tomorrows be as perfect as my
yesterday!'

Mayfly watches the moon come up and the stars go out.
And is thankful for her wonderful life.

This was a poem read at the funeral of a inflammatory breast cancer warrior at her request. She was about my age so she'd had many days. Still not long enough.

Mayflies are also known as fish flies and are found very close to the Great Lakes. I am too far away from the water to experience them in Ann Arbor. They all hatch at once and die later that day. I worked briefly in downtown Detroit on the River eating lunch on its banks inhaling the distillery fumes of the Hiram Walker plant due south in Canada and vanilla aroma, once a week, from my own employer. One day the banks were covered with dying flies. Never had heard of them before. I didn't see them again until I was camping in Mackinaw City within a half mile where Lakes Michigan and Huron touch with Naomi when she was 13. We were on the Michigander, the 6 day bike ride that features Rails-to-Trails. All night I had heard pitter patter on the tent walls puzzled as the weather report said no chance of rain. I got up as usual before Naomi and found thousands of these flies dead or almost dead on the tent. She screams just at the sight of a mosquito or bee: she is no fan of bugs. Suffice it to say, she was not amused when she finally arouse. Our breakfast companion was thrilled as he was a fly fisherman. Those fancy trout and salmon lures are all designed to look like a mayfly. He said there was a whole book, The Hatch, describing these things. It was a happy day for the fish.