Moths

Moths

The moths
Have migrated into the house
They crowd the walls
Small ciphers dark against the whiteness.
As if witnessing a wake,
Or perhaps waiting for a dream to float in
From the garden they have left behind.

They flutter up
When disturbed
Settle back
Notes on page of music,
Tuning a waiting song.
Yet to be sung.


Her voice
Quavers
As she reads her poem to herself.

She thinks of death -
The low cemetery wall
That does not hide
The plain white crosses marking the graves within.

She wants to see with the eyes of a child
Reach past the fear of failure
And find her truth
Say it,
Clearly.

The words
A balsam
For a wound
That cannot be undone.


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