Dancing with Moths: A Ghazal

I was four when I first saw them in the evening light:

Shadows dancing in car beams, street lamps, and porch lights. 

They emerged and scattered everywhere in dusty halos. 

Shimmering, their wings caught every bit of light. 

Others were almost translucent, their fluttering 

mere silhouettes darting in and out of the light.

I discovered death while watching my mother sweep

fine dust of burnt wings when cleaning out the porch lights.

Some evenings, I peeled bodies of moths from their grave sites,

wings and tangled legs crushed in car headlights.

I thought I could show them how to avoid danger

with my own dance, my movements gawky, but my steps light.

I sidestepped perils I knew as a child: cracked sidewalks,

tree roots, and bees resting on dandelions in the afternoon light.

Still, my world continued to fill with broken wings.

Death penetrated even the magic of twilight. 

I learned that Karen may mean pure, my actions 

couldn’t save so many from the dangers of lights

-Karen Weyant