Mother folds herself into blankets,
inside, on the couch, while I slip
out to brisk air and blanketing night.

So much has changed—for her, for me
over the past couple years, over and again,
and she in her chrysalis, and me in my silk,

are only just emerging—stretching feelers
across a world that is barely recognizable
any more.  Under the fading moon, I wonder—if there is anything

as colorful as the beauty of the crone,
shades of strength, and clarity, and love,
or if my mottled brown and greys compare,

or can share a single hue
of the magic I see all round with this current
dark so plentiful, wings spreading—

Lady Moth, you alight on the glassy palm
of my screen, like a mirror of my mind—
child of lunar flight, winged perambulation

in the labyrinths preceding, and presiding
over seams where I sleep, where I travel, where
I wake—truly wake—to the wonder

of a thousand worlds, both here and now
and those others–of which I can merely dream
might welcome a nocturnal vagrant

preparing to write—that diurnal denizens might 
see with the eyes of the dreamers
who walk the new dawn out of night.