One warm and amber night, the liquid air
a tepid cup of tea, an unexpected blizzard
swirls beneath the eaves, pale moths
whirling through the cone of porch light.
We are called outdoors into this storm
by a distant, abstracted drone, as if
each moth transports migratory winds
in the forest of its fur. We witness
their famished longing when they fall
upon the blooms mounding a terra cotta pot,
forming a snowdrift that rustles, suckling.
We are drawn to them, these wild, unlikely
travelers, cloaked against some somber future
year, stronger than their filamental limbs
would appear to us. We, who are far more
inclined to fling ourselves in want and fear
into the light, to tear our wings to pieces
seeking whatever nectar we imagine there.
© by Susan Rooke.
Used with the author’s permission.