I saved a moth the other day, accidentally.
He was caught in a spiders web under my grill cover.
Where was he going that brought him
to close to that sticky, deadly trap?
Had he resigned himself to dying?
Did he simply lay there, waiting for Charlottes sting?
Did his brief life flash before him?
Was he panic struck or stoic in the face of death?
I will never be able to ask him, for when
I lifted the grill cover, I demolished the weave.
He was unexpectedly freed.
A momentarily disorientated moth
fluttering around me,
acclimating to the miraculous.
Then, with intention, he made a beeline to my heart,
where he hovered, reverently gifting me with his
grateful, winged worship, and flew away into a sunlit day.

How nice to be a god.

Briefly to be homaged,
if only by a moth.
I wonder how he will explain
his tardiness to dinner
to his wife and the kids
and what his Grace will be,
sitting at their table,
wings folded in prayer.