from What Comes of Waiting
Vermont twilight.
The moth-hour has come,
nutshells fleck the yard
and steam swirls from asphalt
after late rain — a veil
between mountaintop and valley.
Ghost-like wings pearl the darkness,
wind spiraling over barberry and jessamine.
Love and death come on nights like this –
a coolness crackling the air,
sizzle of hope, dread in the owl’s sigh.
The spit of rain as it holds back
the moth-flickering moment
before drifting away.
