A MOTH FOUND ON THE FLOOR by EDNA M. BECKER

Were I an entomologist,
I'd call you by your proper name
That's likely long and difficult, but now
You're just a dead grey moth -- the grist
Of circumstance.

I touch your tame
And quiet wings, and then allow
Their spangled dust that lies like dew,
Or pollen on a flower, to glint
Upon my fingers -- spread your wings;
Although they're drab and dull of hue,
Upon them lies a patterned print
Of intricate black stencilings
That shows a master craftsman's ink.

And here are hidden wings inside
Of velvet black, and on each lies
Surprisingly, two bars of radiant pink....
Who taught you wisdom, Moth, to hide
Your loveliness from casual eyes?

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