Moth Season
When she was reading a novel a moth fluttered around her head.
This season, her favorite season,
Moth season.
What scares the school yard are the tip toes in dark corners;
the undertone, the whisper’s whisper:
Moths. They like to crawl, where she can’t see.
But as any abused child will come to love, the light switch
always illuminates a musty basement.
Lighting an the wick to this grey amusement,
just so she may admire, what its like,
to escape the light.
Moth’s mean summer.
A season that showers a concoction of sentience, reflecting
external perfection, creating the forgotten butterfly.
And she came mismatched home from school,
picking up the pieces of a broken mug,
finding no one home,
and as usual, the doors where unlocked.
Stuck in rays of lights, bouncing off the cut wholes in the wall,
there played a pair of mystic flutters.
She did not swat, but rather stood beneath.
Feeling the unwanted happy accidents yelp so quietly,
needing to be set free,
wanting to once again sit in a dark, dark place,
and stay as art work,
in a room that nobody knows.
She remained underneath the scattered play, only to sit,
and close her eyes.
Cross her legs, placing her favorite novel upon her lap.
Her empty room, of miss-guarded memories, felt so still
to the pitter-patter.
As a bird may forget to fly, the moth crashed like a wounded soldier
upon the pages of her book.
It didn’t look hurt, in fact it crawled, fluttering its wings
with any sense of a breeze coming through the
broken windows.
As she knew, moths where summer,
and with loud steps approaching the door.
A burly hand pushing through a previously broken door,
she closed her book,
feeling the crunch and the crack squishing between the pages.
That’s where moth’s are meant to be.
So that is where it will remain, where she cannot see.
In a dark, dark place.
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