A Moment

A small moth comes
To comfort you.
Of course not—moths
Come to make moths,

To eat. They flit
About their way,
Which isn’t yours.
They don’t despair.

You’d hope they don’t.
If this one, small,
Silver and soft
On moonlit skin,

Does not despair,
Goes on its way,
Remains a moth,
It comforts you.