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.
