The Fate of Winter Moths
“the fate of winter moths”
sitting on the stoop, concrete sodden with
the chill of late winter. the air
acquires a coolness like your first breath
after confessional. the Christmas lights
illuminate the porch in a motley of whites
and oranges. the tangerine glow casting
warmth while the sun is taking his smoke
break. Two sounds permeate the crisp air
rising up to my ears like a swan through
inky lake water: the languid boughs
sighing in the wind, scraping their emaciated
limbs together in contemplation and the
fatal buzz of my neighbor’s bug zapper.
It stands watch like a plum King’s Guard,
never resting in his duty; an amethyst firebrand.
The absence of the mosquito’s persistent drone
is chilling, and its deafening vacancy amplifies the
cruel cut of the bug zapper.
In this quiet cacophony
I think that letting moths fall prey to an
undeserved, mauve, electric death is the cruelest
thing I’ve ever known.
I creep back up the
steps and cast a wary
look into my neighbor’s
grimey window and am
shocked to see them
sleeping peacefully.
Copyright © C.W. Bryan | Year Posted 2023
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment