I long to touch your cheek

the way a moth will come

to a bedroom window in late September.

I am drawn to your face.


I am compelled

to feather against

its soft curves,

knowing full well


the softest brush will tatter me,

turn my lips to ashes

tear at my fingertips,

echo as fragile wing beats


eventually destroying

the last vestiges

of my armor.


Here’s a moth by the light

in the house high in flight

It is flying like it never has before

and it wants to get in to the light by the door


to the ragged mystic promise of the heat

To the light to the heat

It will bang its pretty body till its torn

till it’s torn


till it’s dead

till it isn’t anybody any more

what was borne by the heat

and the world is complete

under lunar sky with mothecules


Keep the candle lit

underneath the stars

that brighten

in the yard

behind your house.


Do not let arrows

of doubt

pierce you.


Even in moonlight,

notice the cotton,

the daisies,

the painted moths.


Let go of the past:




Keep a bright eye


on future galaxies

to resurrect

quiet reflections.


Make your feather bed

but don’t lie in it long.

Heed the nightingale,


yet watch for the tail

of the morning kite.


~ by dianeklammer on April 18, 2013.

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