Moth hour

Houses on the night street

Acquiesce to wings of moths

Silent on the window screen.  

Something in the green of their wings,

Decorated Argus eyes

And no mouths to speak 

                                                        Asking questions I cannot answer,

                                                                           Not at this hour, where it’s gone:

                                                                           The done and left undone, 

Commissions and omissions

Our moments of silence kneeling

Not as sins but dim regrets 

I have no answer for the moth,

But the kitchen at least is clean,

Plastic over the cake and coffee set to brew. 

Small acts of hope as the blanket descends,

The unearthly song of summer cicadas

Too early this year, 

Blamed, of course, on a winter

Unseasonably warm.

                                                                                    July, 2012