The Solitary White Moth

 by Brett Rutherford

The white moth, solitary, the meadow’s
lyric poet, has neither master nor peer.
His wingbeats define, defend domains
as the quest for the lover, invisible,
a smidgin of a thing dun-brown,
expectantly athwart a trembling branch,
the thought of whose existence sustains him.

His quest will be epic in advance of the frost.
Together they might meet tragically
if at all: Romeo, too late, at Juliet’s grave,
or Isolde, too late, expiring upon
his grounded, dead, pale pinions.

On every lawn I pass, on each
well-tended patch of native plants,
even the most denuded place presents
its single, white, solitary moth.
For the first time ever, one lands
upon my open palm, lingers
just long enough to hail me:
Brother!