Anna Hiss

It´s that time of year
when moths converge,
their velvet wings drape windows
resembling roman shades.
Do they not realize
they´re consuming the light?
In the dining room,
remnants of the past lay still.
Hours and months
form their own archaeology.
Dust falls from ceiling fans
like grey ash from an angry volcano.
Glancing at the window again,
I notice straggler moths
abandoned by a melting moon.
They flit back and forth...lost.
But I am where I was meant to be.
After years of circling around
a false light with tattered wings,
I am home again.