morning lines 2
grief is the thing with wings--
the umber-colored moth sheltering in place with you, although now hardly in situ, seems to thumb its hairy nose at all human inertia, as it rolls, loops, and spins, erratically, as moths do, up and over the cedar beams and into the perfumed and pitted air of the skylight. You wait with the patience of the privileged until it finds the wide expanse of wall (and all that is). Pinching its rice-paper wings, opening the door, you see yourself thinking twice before the release. Thrice before letting go your grief.