Poem 1

A plague of moth wings swirled the breathless night,
It’s crispness now cut to shreds by such curious creatures.
One foot follow another, pacing down the lane.
Frost creeps over gate handles,
And the grasses’ flimsy blades are rigid with ice.

I am here.
Exhale.
Sweet vapour stirs the night air.

Ahead I see a circus of moths,
disguised by protruding tree branches.
Then my mind goes stiff like the grass,
And I narrow my gaze.
One moth flies alone;
Drifting through a breathless night,
Unaware that winter is coming soon.
Distant from his friends,
and distant from the moon.

I am here.
Exhale.
Sweet Vapour disturbs the night air.

Ahead I see mist.
The moths disappear.
This night is strong in its solitude.
Then again, this isn’t the season for moths.

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~ by leona52 on December 16, 2010.

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