The white moths that fly at night are believed to be
the souls of the dead.
I have wondered about them;
what they do
with eternity on their hands.
The uselessness of time
at the end
of breakfast, bedtime, dinner and sunrise.
Perhaps they rearrange the dust,
snip the hems
of each falling snowflake.
Perhaps they come back, drawn
toward our lights,
small warmths unconscious of the sky
snug in their own purposes,
against the cold glory of moonlight
dropping its white petals just outside
the locked window.
They beat on the glass with their papery wings.