Moon Moths

In need of wisdom in my life
I go at dusk to the garden
so full of silken shadows,
inner light, a gentle flow
of ephemeral colors,
and the last, quiet visits
of soft-winged creatures.

The twilit garden invites
a wide-angled way of seeing;
the gathering of faint light
from far-distant stars
and the gently swaying grass;
the indirect gaze that sees
hints of coming and going.

Thus wisdom works its slow way
in the sheltered places to appear
in the bright-skied world
as the impossibly light touch on the arm;
the whisper of a word in the inner ear;
a folded note slipped under
the door of consciousness.

Say you stayed up half the night
watching a pair of moon moths
(their wings spread against the stone wall).
They might never show you
their sudden, silent flight
through moon-silver flowers.

In the morning they would be gone,
but you might just intuit
the powdery imprint of their wings
against the stone
and it would be enough.