Luna Moth
Disguised in green, the luna
has dropped like a summer-fallen
leaf onto a Norfolk pine—
a barren roost. The wings
of a one-week creature
mimic a face with a stare
that does not blink. Reticent
as the moon, the moth could
be wired in place, an angel on
an unseasonable Christmas tree.
The light-as-breath banner unfurls
runes before my unschooled gaze.
By Marion Brown
Marion Brown’s chapbooks, published by Finishing Line, are Tasted and The Morning After Summer. Her poems have appeared recently in Guesthouse and the Women’s Review of Books. She serves on Slapering Hol Press’s Advisory Committee, the Program Committee of the Hudson Valley Writers Center, and the National Council of Graywolf Press.