Fistle, Fistle, Fistling

Moments are among the gentler insects,
Moth-winged, perhaps burdened with parasites
Of their own, but in that minority
Of species that do not parasitize.

Sometimes, even common persons working,
On permission, to work for a living,
Get whole hours of moth-winged moments alone
Without chores or social obligations,

When their bodies sit quiet within them.
Then, those moments rustle in procession,
Fistle, fistle, fistling, fairies in gowns
To go with their wings, drab fairies, soft ones

Who never pause in their dancing to speak.
The moments themselves, like fairies and moths
Are going extinct. Some may pass through this
Winnowing. Some pass each time that you blink.