The light-yellow glow on wings
like rustling parchment filled
with lamplight over the kitchen table,
fallen like a breezy, distracted thought,
the same as a week ago,
a brushing recurrence.
On the tablecloth, on mother's old
knuckled hands, in a nook
in between exposed veins.
She welcomes and cuddles it with the same
singsong voice she always has
when she cuddles the dog, when she feels
her muzzle gently landing on her knee.
The moth comes when dinner tales
swing around by the window with the trees' crowd,
carried far out and hovering close
with a thin flutter of wings dropping
under focus — here, the same,
same as a returning gaze
in a swinging gust, down
into the same circle of hands
and pool of light, on this table.
This tiny landing on skin.
Tiny perseverance of the here-and-now.