Oakworm Moon

The Orange-Tipped Oakworm moth 
rested beneath the porchlight
for three whole days.

Her family name,
like many moths, was Saturn,
but her wings were painted in shades
of Mars and marigolds, and the
Oklahoma red dirt warming
steadily in early May…

I thought she died there -
so I nudged her plush, papaya body
gently with my little jar, but her little feet
twitched as she murmured sleepily,
“Can't a lady have some peace?”

Mortified, I apologized
and whispered, “Stay as long as you like!
Sometimes I forget that to rest
doesn't mean you're dead…”

An awkward silence followed, 
and perpetually filling such silence, 
I added,
“I'd probably need three days of
beauty sleep, too - if I were so lovely!”

Without a response,
she adjusted her wings with eyespots
like white-hot suns squinting 
in a Panhandle dust storm, 
and she perched there stubbornly 
daydreaming for the rest of the afternoon, 
into a moonless evening.

The next morning I went out to greet her, 
only to find that she'd moved on.

That day, with a hefty to-do list, I decided
to walk down to the lakeshore, and
sat a spell beneath the mossy oaks…

I gazed out at the red water rippling,
squinting beneath the noonday sun -

I thought of her,
I thought of Mars and Saturn...
time, life, death, and New Moons,
and with bittersweet orange intention,

stubbornly...

I rested.