February 22, 2012

Change of season means change of light, now when it would usually still be too dark to see anything outside, I begin to see the shadows of trees against that deep and lovely blue, as if they were rising from the depths of some lightless lake.  The little moon of the orange streetlight is softened by air laden with water, not quite fog but close.  No birds are awake yet, and the road is empty still, and there is not a stirring of wind.

In the bathroom this morning, there is a moth, small and speckled brown and gray.  Against a tree, you would not be able to see it, but against the orangey cream of the walls, it stands out like a smudge of dirt, or a chip of wet bark stuck to the wall.  The arrowheads of its wings so thin I believe you could see light through it.  It's motionless, just resting there, doing no harm, lost inside a place where stillness and color do not hide it from prying eyes.  I leave it on the wall, doing no harm, but it reminds me of a poem I have saved.

Luna Moth

I thought it was a bat, looking for trouble,
but it was only a luna moth clutching the screen.
When it settled on my pillow, closing its wings,

I left the room and waited for it to fly out
but it remained in the cavity of my pillow
until I slipped a piece of cardboard

under the speckled body.
Then in anger it flew wildly through the rooms of our house,
a blessing gone awry, and before I could swat it

it vanished into some crack or
hidden place. Then I lay down again
and waited for you to open your eyes

but you gripped the sheets and held fast to sleep,
and the luna moth scudded through our bedroom, reading
my horoscope on the dust of the blinds.

Jeff Friedman

Sometimes such visitors remind us of the world we seldom experience, more vast than our enclosed spaces.  Sometimes we are fascinated by them, sometimes repelled, sometimes they drag in wild we aren't comfortable with, sometimes they frighten us, sometimes they astonish us.  A luna moth, large and pale as kite against the dark would be a fascination, and a distraction from routine, but a small gray moth can be noticed and at once forgotten, nothing out of the ordinary, nothing frightening or mysterious.  Yet, here I am, writing to remember it, including it in my morning routine, accepting it, and wishing it no harm, a tiny wildness in civilized room, a small reminder of all I miss living this enclosed life.

Perhaps there will be some tiny wildness in your day, a blessing of beauty, some small astonishment reading your horoscope in a moment's brush of its fragile wings, or the notes of its song.