How soft the wind doth tease tonight,
the moth paused on the pane.
A feathered brush on powdered wing
reflects the moon's domain.
Its latent form, ephemeral,
seems stilled in dark surmise.
There, painted on its wings outspread,
two iridescent eyes
yearn sightlessly to understand
our filtered firmament.
Yet I could open up the latch
before the candle's spent,
and let this dreamer flutter in
to touch reality,
the flame that burns, reducing all
to grey eternity,
but I'll maintain a poet's right
to keep the window closed,
and pen my prisoned thoughts upon
this moonlit moth's repose.