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An Indian meal moth, a mite,
flits in my house, treading air,
flapping labor here to there.

I barely noticed it till one night
it landed on my pillow, near my ear,
and whispered about fire.

Follow me, it said.
Heat. Light.
I do not call you to
fate in the flame, but
to illumination,
memory updated,
new life,
new times.

Then it took flight.
In the after dark, its echo
temped me all night.


( 8 comments — Leave a comment )
Apr. 15th, 2010 12:01 am (UTC)
"I do not call you to
fate in the flame, but
to illumination..."

Oh, man! Fantastic!
Apr. 15th, 2010 12:04 am (UTC)
Thanks very much, Chris.
Apr. 15th, 2010 02:07 am (UTC)
I do not call you to
fate in the flame, but
to illumination,

aren't they essentially one and the same?

Great cadence. Love your poetry.
Apr. 15th, 2010 02:22 am (UTC)
Good question! Thanks, Lizz.
Apr. 15th, 2010 09:12 am (UTC)
Do you read the poems in the "New Yorker" (I can't do italics) magazine? Yours are way better.
Apr. 15th, 2010 12:50 pm (UTC)
High praise indeed. Thank you, Sarah.
Apr. 15th, 2010 12:21 pm (UTC)
Nailed it. Awesome.
Apr. 15th, 2010 12:51 pm (UTC)
Thanks, Jamie.
( 8 comments — Leave a comment )

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