MOTH AUBADE
by R.T. Smith
Downstairs early to mill
the morning coffee,
I find the kitchen wall
beside the lamp
is littered with moths
exhausted from a night
of circling the globe,
as if its light were
the source of joy.
As I approach in slippers
they hardly flutter
but hold their postures,
perhaps in their small
thoughts counting on me,
a frequent dreamer
still drowsy from reverie,
to show them mercy.
Pouring the beans, then
turning the worn handle
till the brass gears growl,
I study every wing
design—solid, striped
or mottled. To the Greeks
they were all psyche,
spirit drawn to flame,
but this August morning
I wish, before they perish,
to revive us all
with the scent of chicory
and conduct them out
the kitchen window
singing their luminous
individual names.
Photo: Ike Gomez, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Silver Birch Press 