There is a name for that thing
that is both practical and perilous,
beautiful and treacherous,
comforting and poisonous.
Today I am a moth, having
the hardest time discerning
the moon from near
a thousand candle flames.
Now, I mustn't blame the flame.
I can just realign my instincts,
look deeper than the glow,
trust the part of me that knows
not to fear the haunting shimmer
but recall with love the moon.
Though my wings are singed and tattered,
somewhere tonight,
there is a light that will lead me home.
|
|
|
|
rate
email
print
link to this page
Comments: 5
Funny... that's exactly how I responded to this drawing of Jude's:
http://www.gather.com/viewImage.jsp?fileId=3096224743958707&articleId=281474976840911
This is a most beautiful poem about one of my favorite subjects.