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.
"Moth Aubade" by R. T. Smith. Text as posted on Silver Birch Press: New Voices in Fiction, Nonfiction, Plays & Poetry (12/17/12). Art credit: "Atlas moth wing," macro photograph by Dan Brown.
A cozy piece....I would carve it to "singing their luminous names," that sings to me, and I think such singing should not end
ReplyDeleteGentle disagreement on this point for me. If I saw a mass of moths on a wall, would I think of each of them as an individual? Not normally, but with this poem to prompt me I would perceive each individual short-lived being there with me in my morning coffee ritual.
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