Moth

What wrecks you make,
crushed with fly swatters.
We see only your distress,
caught bentwinged by
geckos or wrens.

A cat makes your final
struggle a painflutter game
sometimes we watch you
bump dumb faces against
windows for hours.

Or spin circles, upside
down on tile floors, who
knows what confusion makes
you attempt flight
into the ground. Overdose
maybe on a 40 watt lover.

Forgive us if we do not
find you beautiful,
you are not your daytime sister
we want to be her sometimes,
not you.

We have little compassion for
those whose joys we
do not trouble ourselves to see.

 

© 2017 Dan Erickson

Photo Source (Melanie Tata, Flickr)

Suitable
The New Alchemy