Poems/ 27

The Moth

The Moth is dull and drab, with dirty wings.

The Air, who only cares for dainty things,

For lace-winged Flies and Butterflies and rare

Beige Seeds that float in clouds of mazy hair,

Does hate the Moth.

“Oh, sweetest Moth,” says Air,

“Do condescend to meet my friend, the Flame.”

“Who, me?” asked dazzled Moth. “I meet the Flame?”

“Poor Flame is starved. He has no friends at all.

Sad, bluish thing, he drinks -- pure alcohol,

You know.”

“I didn’t know!” cries Moth and flies

To meet poor lonely Flame. Through Air’s dark skies,

She drives her dirty wings to meet poor blue

And drunken Flame.

From out his bowl of glass,

Up leaps the Living Flame, so hot and bright --

For Living Flames are tall and upper-class,

Not poor and dull at all.

Poor Moth in fright

Does want to fly away -- but who can fly

From bright, exquisite Flames? “Good-bye! Good-bye!”

She sings. But never does she go. Around,

Around the Living Flame as if she’s bound

By golden string. With every round, she closer flies.

She dives. She nearly nicks the lovely Flame.

“Oh, pretty Moth, do KISS the Flame!” Air cries.

And so Moth does. She dives to kiss the Flame.

“Oh, pretty Moth, I love your Blazing Wings.

For I am Air, and only care for Dainty Things.”