The Moth

The moth is out, he’s going to enjoy this night, like the stars above, like the trees bending and talking to themselves, whoever loses will have lost nothing, nature boundless wearing lace. I watched him weave through the pines, that image that is sometimes confusion, something haunts every moonlit prayer. The voices call, the mysteries deepen. No longer ordinary, just the way the world moves, it sweeps over light as wind, each branch a ribbon hurtling toward the end. Up high before crush and shadow, it carries stories; a silence at first speaks: oh, there’s beauty! The picture itself is a sacred thing, not unlike mercy— he has nothing to gain or waste, so he flutters and hums, all is wonder in his tiny hands. All of life belongs within his heart—there is no fear— Three hundred blades danced beside him—it wasn’t a long life, but that he could have soared. It was a mystical night, this mote of light, constellations swinging on puppet strings. Each shape is a dream; usually lost, each flower has a song; so he drifts till dawn. The sky moves on but those free wings remain deposited in beauty—always alive within the night.

• Mary Oliver