• The Dream of a Moth


    Twilight falls upon the busy world;
    An aged lady, garbed in soft, grey bedgown,
    Makes ready for night’s peaceful rest and imaginings;
    Rebirth of dream after days’ harsh reality.

    About her window to night sky dance little moths,
    Silver creatures of darkness and powdered moonshine,
    Gentle ghosts attracted to the candlelight;
    Phantoms in the twilight.

    Sleep falls upon the lady,
    As she rests her sliver locks on pillow of soft down and moonlit sheets,
    Slowly drifting off into serene illusions of slumber;
    Dream world of the night.

    She awakes to perceive the world in deep darkness,
    But through eyes of a nightroamer as gently she goes,
    Flitting out of window on sleek wings of powdery stardust;
    To dance in the moonlight.

    The other mothen beauties join in the dance,
    Reveling in freedom of flight and the natural cadence crickets sing to them
    As they waltz through the sky on rising mists of moonlight;
    Patterns of sliver dancing stars.

    Deep into the night moths dip and swirl,
    Harmony of nature conducting their course, their motion,
    Weaving their paths through heavy moon light and dark shadows;
    Sliver needles piercing the midnight sky.

    All the while, watching the moths from high in treetops,
    A nocturnal hunter stalks his prey, eyes of flashing gold,
    And clipping beak of steel-like strength;
    A shadow of stealth.


    Swooping in, the unwanted dancer plunges,
    Steel entrapping silver, as moonlit moths abruptly end their dance,
    Dipping and swirling now for life, harmony scattered like its dancers;
    Nature taking course.

    A single moonshine dancer falls maimed,
    To earth she plunges narrowly escaping the disturber,
    And on soft moss lands, out of harm’s path for the instant;
    Life peacefully coming to end.

    She lies in soft, grey moss,
    Grasp of reality faltering and illusions of fantasy taking over,
    No longer a sliver nightdancer, no longer in peril.
    Slipping into subconscious dreams.

    Dawn breaks, touching her with sunbeams of warmth,
    Not though, through trees, but a window,
    And on gentle bed and pillow, not moss;
    Illusions becoming reality.

    Powdered silver wings and smooth body
    Now are soft, grey bedgown and sliver locks,
    Lying peacefully on gentle bed and down pillow;
    The dream of a moth.