Actias Dubernardi

by Darla Mottram

The adult stage
of the Chinese moon moth’s life
spans no more than twelve days.
Spun silk flutters through
mountains like a dream,
short-lived and gossamer
as a secret.
Then there is me,
earth-bound flesh,
blasé with my hoards of days,
spending them lavishly
as if they were guaranteed.
If I were to trade
twelve years of hard work and ambition,
of diplomas earned and then forgotten,
of lists and diary entries and dishes;
if I were to trade twelve years
of incoherent musings and moscato,
of recipes and calendars,
of blueberry stained fingertips and June Carter’s voice;
if I were to trade twelve years
of regrets and wakeful nights,
of what if’s and the smell of mascara,
of status updates and movie nights;
if I were to trade these for an evening
floating through mountain mists,
wing-beats too quiet for human ears,
my only guide one that nudges
from within, then perhaps
peace and purpose would lose their meaning
and become dappled moonlight
and cold, thin air instead.