Strike the viol, touch the lute
—Nahum Tate
The moth with folded wings
motionless on the window sill
camouflaged among ordinary things,
watches the flame burning
from the lamp until
the moth with folded wings
twitches with the asking
the why of standing still
camouflaged among ordinary things,
when light but briefly clings
to the wick, the ink to the quill.
The moth with folded wings
lifts off the ledge of being
loath, thrashes at the gilt,
camouflaged among ordinary things,
willing to risk everything
for sake of light—to kill
itself, the moth with folded wings,
camouflaged among ordinary things.
First Published in Spillway