Two girls show me a moth they’ve been trying
to save: a big, brown and tan thing,
fuzzy, fluttering and stumbling
on the concrete patio, its big, clever wings
bent at the wrong angle.
I manage to scoop the trembling creature into my hands.
I ask where it should be taken,
they say, “Over here,” galloping far ahead.
As I walk, I feel the frantic beat
of the moth’s wings soft against my
cupped palms. I try to understand
that I am holding life – blood, muscle,
I try to understand what the world
must feel like, cradled in the hands
of the Higher Power, beating its injured
wings in the futile attempt to