by Betsy Love
Seeking the Light
We, like moths drawn to the porch,
seek the light,
But not understanding we beat our wings
against the bulb
And fall wounded to the ground.
Did we fail the lamp
or only ourselves?
Are we meant to lie fluttering
hopeless on the cold stone?
Gossamer wings leaving grey stains
as reminders of our own self-glory.
In whose wings do we find
Whose net snares our safety?
Only when the moth flickers in the
moonlight do we behold the beauty
of an otherwise ugly creature.