as the forearms of a folk hero.
Atlas moths cling to the window
screen, freeze their wings
into sleep
unknowable
as the mind
of an opponent soldier —
opaque as any other creature,
winged or
only terrestrial.
Imagine that these Atlas
moths don’t see us anymore,
their minds exploring a war
still undefeated, undefined — unspoken —
knowing only the wreckage
of the future, distant
glacial lakes draped
with a green-blue blanket
of algae — ice sheet gone —
how rare
they are in the darkness,
how hard and bright and white,
precise as the modern red-brown-orange
painting of a moth’s wings
designed by no one
we know.
Poignant, takes the reader to an imagined scene of the atlas moth. The three words ‘ice sheet gone’ forces us to be mindful, proactive and stewards of our world .
Posted by: Sylvia Samek | January 28, 2022 at 05:27 PM