Rosy Maple Moth

 

 

d. rubicunda

 

A creamy pastel moth adheres

to the lip of a plate glass window.

When I prod it, folded wings

flourish but refuse to flap.

Easy prey for a robin,

 

but robins are scarce this year,

climate bubbling like witches’ brew.

To photograph and catalogue

this ornament for future reference

seems crass. You think it’s dying,

 

one of those mouthless creatures

that lays its eggs and then starves.

The respectful thing is to leave it

to mull the stark utility

of its ten days of adult life.

 

All last summer as caterpillar

it fed on specific foliage.

Then a winter tightly mummified.

Then spring and a sudden mating—

then eggs, the futureless future.

 

You peer at its minute throbbing

and wonder aloud that it chose

this exposed place to meditate.

I snap a photo and withdraw,

having desecrated its little space.

 

You want to name the creature

the way Adam named all creatures

with his initial attempt at speech,

although he lacked the Latin

science prefers to apply.

 

We’ll look it up in The Moth Book,

and when we find and pronounce

the proper words we can relax,

having done our human duty

for it if not for ourselves.