Moth

It's been almost exactly twenty years since I wrote this piece. For those who are archaeologists of romance, this is the original of a college magazine poem which was written for a girl. Who was the girl? To some, it will be obvious.

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Summer rain, thundering it seems;
Or maybe the face of God seen
In the wind, travelling like spears,
Like the teeth of chill winter silence.

One night, we see the moth alone.
Lost in his shattered faith he dreams
That the candle we withhold from him
Is his salvation in the world.

Cold night it is: why don’t we let
The moth burn bright and die, alive
For happiness he feels he’s found?
Maybe our mercy is his pain.

What rain is this, threshing my leaves?
No rain — only flowers falling
To the wind which is ravaging
The hills about ten years ago.

1984