Downstairs early to mill
the morning coffee,
I find the kitchen wall
beside the lamp
is littered with moths
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.
![](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgx5m-sa_wzw60Cm89gX3B5ZN3bdUflOrymjanFQXyiTs92X2qj39b6PQuwFPayJazrF4wI_cgh9x65Haa-yfcmsDvtlHY6feaSpurSV1XJUbv_1V3dvFQ1HS5BGePnRSRuu_qy5Ys_lWE/s200/images-3.jpg)
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
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