Moth to the Flame

In this the beginning
Of our dark age,
A late November sun wastes low —
And I, too,
Drawn and gone cold,
Pulling in
With the oncoming winter —
Scent the snow yet to fall.

I covered the river path
But couldn’t stop singing,
Those notes still falling
From red lips —
Pulled the heavy door
To the blue rooms.
And this music drew
Each to each —
It is an unspoken thing,
Beyond understanding.

But you were there.
It took two measures
To forget myself
In the shadow you cast —
Quiet hellos,
Gentle jests —
You lit that damn fire
And now all is confusion,

Have to walk some sense
Back into it,
And tame this before
It leaves me —
And oh, god!
The bluebirds!
Still here and less shy
With no leafy camouflage.
Subtle song
Brings you before me.
Maybe, like me,
They just haven’t learned
To stop dropping sweet notes
When confronted
With the dying fire.

However it happened —
By chance
Or the pulling of
Threads untouched —
My heart dropped four feet
When I saw you there

Now it is the cranes’ time.
The hundreds wheel high.
Their cries remind me
I am just this.
I want it to be
High and holy,
But really,
There is only
What there ever was —
Animal and instinct.

And it is,
How I always knew
It would be —
I am too much air
In danger
From the red flames.
It is fever and folly —
But it keeps me tethered
To this place,
And I am loathe to part
Too soon.

How could I permit this
To pass by?
I must feel it all —
Immerse myself in light
And heat.
You might cast me to ashes
That much sooner,
But like the flame-drawn moth —
Stricken silhouette,
Wingbeat flutter,
Instinctual darkness,
Night stalker,
Eyecorner shadow —
I just can’t quit you.


About Emily

I may or may not have: A. Dirt B. Ink C. Paint D. Wool under my fingernails.

One response to “Moth to the Flame”

  1. Heaven says :

    Like the cool November images of love and longing..your ending lines of the moth are beautiful ~

    Nice to meet you ~

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