Strange that I never saw the crane flies mate
Before. Surprised, absorbed, I watch them dance,
Aloft on feeble wings. As they advance,
Retreat, rise, fall, over my lawn this late
March morning, bodies joined to generate
Next spring's ephemera, I drift toward trance:
One hour ago I would have called it chance
That I found two crane flies to liberate.
I found them in the den--I often do--
Swept air with my cupped hands to make a cage,
And took them outside where I set them free.
These mating ones I see--again? are two.
Did I grant them this final happy stage
Of their brief lives, this dying ecstasy?