The moth

Let me accept it was you
as I immediately thought
then as you nestled, hand
with a small crevice, even

in March a refuge from
rituals the others dreamt
up to bid farewell to your
late form, So I found you

there, and surprised. Life
recurs, we saw, that part
seems sure, yet transient
as a moth in late winter,

late winter’s moth who
wanted to bed down. I
had to leave, so coaxed
you to a bush, not snug

nor family, but you’d
soon rise off, recycled
God knows where, a
slow flight or a crawl

to the mark-making,
heart-breaking place
you left us, but then
just green and slight.