Moth

quite often
more than not
I end begin
in sky.
there is
no why.
it is a
simple
punctuation.
it is the sweet cream cold
over ripe plump strawberries.
it is the sweeter cream pinkish
in the bottom of a blue bowl.
it is the dream of trout flashing in the wet sun
leaping over rainbows of their own making.
it is like all things with wings with me.
the tiniest moth flies pointlessly crazily
in the middle of a cool room.
it seems like its possibilities are few
and far far between.
an open window now
too small to see
escaping
moth in
sky.

jppestana
moth
6.17.18