Moonflower and Moth

When I awoke, I was a moth curled 

in pearl dust in the sweater you 

thought you had lost. I was wrapped

in longing. In wings like faded blossoms. 

A moonflower opens wide its mouth 

to meet the still air of the night and 

I am drawn to seek sigils etched in 

leaves and stars. To the moon, I whispered 

a tribute to the waning and waxing -

the maternal body which sang back 

soft pink peony petals falling earthward 

before daylight. Sweet pink, 

the blush of fruit, or the glow of a gymnast’s

flushed knees or once priceless tulips 

blooming near an abandoned stoop. 

We are not dissimilar now, the petals 

and my wings. The search for light and 

sweetness. The steady, inevitable ascent

of a moonflower toward the chill

and pulsing choir of cicadas, higher

as the moth rises to meet light.