Moths by Jennifer O'Grady
Adrift in the liberating, late light
of August, delicate, frivolous,
they make their way to my front porch
and flutter near the glassed-in bulb,
translucent as a thought suddenly
wondered aloud, illumining the air
that's thick with honeysuckle and dusk.
You and I are doing our best
at conversation, keeping it light, steering clear
of what we'd like to say.
You leave, and the night becomes
cluttered with moths, some tattered,
their dumbly curious filaments
startling against my cheek. How quickly,
instinctively, I brush them away.
Dazed, they cling to the outer darkness
like pale reminders of ourselves.
Others seem to want so desperately
to get inside. Months later, I'll find
the woolens, snug in their resting places,
full of missing pieces.
[Hat Tip: The Writer's Almanac]
notes from the underground: my attempt to keep the things I read in my brain
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
in each sister and brother
If God comes down to earth through [the] Son made flesh, then we ascend toward heaven through Jesus present in each sister and brother for ...
-
"Eight O'Clock Coffee, 1935" by Ralph Steiner People in this town drink too much coffee. They're jumpy all the time. You ...
-
Pennsylvania Landscape, 1941 by Andrew Wyeth I prefer winter and fall, when you feel the bone structure of the landscape -- the loneliness ...
No comments:
Post a Comment