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,

never measured

against the cold glory of moonlight

dropping its white petals just outside

the locked window.

They beat on the glass with their papery wings.