shot glass
"... brevity is the soul of wit ..."
- William Shakespeare

Samuel T. Franklin


The Dead Moth

Yellow and purple, a bruise
atop the shortgrass. Near the oak
where a thick green caterpillar

fell grassward last fall
like a wish thrown to wild chance.

The same, perhaps.

Or perhaps not.

The wind doesn't care. It ruffles
the furry abdomen, twitches the wings

in a mockery of flight, the still body
now more like a strange seed.
Its wish, maybe, all along.