Muslin moth,

in the cedar closet–

your frail body never wavers.
With each season,

you become more still.

This stuffy evening,

I will have to move you
from the gauze

to the garden, 

where moonspots

mottle the dirt,

where violets wilt their

aging complexions.
Your wings glint opal

in my palm,
the cool breeze claims you—

And when it does,

I could fall gently,

face up into the dew,
beside the flourishing nightshade.

Just beyond the fence, neighbors gather.

Chatter settles atop my chest, 
an animal searching for warmth.