Mayfly

The way I feel sad

about the good,

the alive–

the wet-winged mayfly,

the just-walking child,

the snap of a stem

on a ripening peach–

the way memory

forgets all of this,

even this, beheld in

sunlight, in joy

even us, here–

flecked by

sunlight,

our fingers

interlaced.

–Karen Miller Rauch