-This poem reflects on moths gathering at a porch light, turning a simple summer evening into a quiet scene of attraction, fragility, and lingering light.
When evening settles on the boards,
and one small bulb begins to glow,
the moths arrive from darkened leaves,
drawn close by what they cannot keep.
They circle through the tender cone,
pale wings against the yellow glass,
a quiet weather made of dust,
and soft repeated turning near.
No fire lives in such a light,
no dawn, no field, no open sky,
and still it gathers fragile things,
that answer brightness with their flight.
So much of summer lingers here,
not only in bloom, but in drift,
the night made visible for a while,
by wings, and glow, and small desire.