Moths
Small moths stir
in the darkness.
I feel their
wings brush my
face, my hands,
remembering the cry
of something unseen.
It is windy
again this morning.
* * *
“Moths” first appeared here in July 2015.
O at the Edges
Musings on poetry, language, perception, numbers, food, and anything else that slips through the cracks.
O at the Edges 
Reading this after a night of whipping wind & rain that took out the power … I went outdoors just as it blew in – air truly charged, charging my curiosity, so many somethings unseen in the dark – the dark of immediate moment and the dark of blown-away memory. Reading this and pondering memories as moth wings that brush by, vanish. Yikes!
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I wish wind and rain could change our culture…
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A very evocative poem.
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Thanks, Liz.
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You’re welcome, Robert.
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I feel delicate wings against my skin, leaving behind a trace of powder…
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Then I have done my job! Thank you.
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My pleasure reading. 🙂
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This is an eerily intriguing poem.
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Thank you very much, Sara-Loretta.
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