A Mayfly flew by the ponder pond
where Vigga the Voeva was meandering
slowly slovenly almost like a ephemera
a little larvae a nonsensical nymph
to evolve eventually into a day fly
only to mate meteorically in air
and the well-worn Voelva stubbed
her toes on a tilted stone at the water's edge
she murmured mildly ouch
continuing her daily dabble in nature
thinking that she as a shelagh
was also a mayfly having mated but once.
Granted she had been molested
but that did not consciously count
as anything but a rape on her soul
scarred with a memory forever
reminding her of the emasculated elf
who at least had atoned for his devious deed
and had since become her friend.
How strange a life can be -
she never again met her lovely lover
of that summer as a beauty and a butterfly
The mayfly would not really turn into one
In an imaginary imago of her wondrous world
it could surely and certainly occur
Was there almost anything more for her
to experience extensively at the age of almost
seventy - well when she thought of her sister
Sophia the highborn and wise woman
that she lived her luck of life
in a cavernous vacuum where she saw
everything as in patterns and sewing
her trundling threads slowly moving
so that she - Sophia could give advice
like Athena in Athens a long time ago.
The Mayfly meandered through the air
and Vigga the Voelva wanted to follow it.
She wanted to dance around the maypole
It was a beautiful Beltane today because
she was going to hold the Elf -her friend-
accountable for his promise around
Samhain the day of the harvest feast
that something would happen
the year she turned sovereignly seventy
that she would embark on her trip towards
the unknown and yet so well-known
other place in Gaelic highlands where
she had spent one stupendous summer
ad mayhap she would find Shmuel
the trader of hearts and joy again
or she would find a new meaning
to her dreary wintry well-worn body?
Was that too much to ask of fate
on a new Mayday as a Mayfly?
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