by Rod Peckman
I walk downstairs and follow
a large moth in flutter
as it buffets the walls
down each stair
along with
me.
So in this new year
I wonder where it is
you’ve come from,
out of the cold where
you should never be,
and wish you all the more
good tidings as moths
are always taken for granted.
Yet you are a small wonder
on this bitter night.
Are your mottled wings
not just as fragile
as the ostentatious
color of a butterfly’s?
so universally loved
by men and women
and especially children.
Myopic eyes we inherit
through mere conditioning
which you’ve now opened
and corrected through your
surprise appearance.
Like a fine photograph—
black to gray to white,
you are subtle and like
an understated study
you are perfect even
outside a frame of glass.
I will not on this night
let pass without wonder
your flight as you air-skitter
in unsteady flap to land
on the toaster, your wings
twitching for balance.
Fly where you wish.
On this bitter night of ice
of a new year.
I long for your fascination
towards light. Towards
surviving even in the most
unlikely of times.
I only ask
that you not land
and die in my
cabernet.
WILLOWS WEPT REVIEW 