The moth loved the moon from afar-
worshipping its image, turning at the
edges to flit again across its surface, she
caressed it all night over, like a ferryboat
crossing from shore to shore.
Moonlight slid over the river
like pearls spilled on a glass floor.
Awash with glory, the moth bathed
in streams of radiance and lapped silver
motes that rang inside her like bells.
Her love faded with dawn- slowly
at first, then suddenly it was gone.
Forgetting to find shade among flowers
and drink their dew, the moth withered
to a dusting of silver powder while
awaiting the return of the moon.
skip to main |
skip to sidebar
Polonius: What do you read, my lord? Hamlet: Words, words, words
