Mourning

I It was a pretty little thing This little moth All white and gray And fluffy as the day It fluttered about My hand and wrist Settling gently on the edge Of my tattered blue sweater Just at my wrist It was walking about Settling about Just enjoying the cool of the early morning As was I under the tree on the grass And then Quite Suddenly Its wings closed up It's little legs dug firmly in And it lodged Like a rock At the edge of the sweater At my wrist. II Well, I wasn't sure what to make of this Was it dead Was it asleep Who could say So, I waved my wrist about A bit And it didn't move a bit But I didn't want to hurt it So, I just put my hands behind my head And slept a bit. III And then After perhaps an hour Or perhaps a half I awoke And put my hands before me And, there it was Just as before A little gray white rock Lodged firm by its little legs But it's slightly tattered wings fluttering a bit In the wind And, I knew for sure It was dead. IV So, the poor little moth Has come to die by my side I thought What a great privilege To be honored by the death Of a poor little living thing That should seek me out As its final companion in life I must mourn it somehow And I sought out a solitary fellow Walking by And showed him the little rock-like Thing, lodged firmly at my wrist And told him it had died there And he said "That's Crazy!" And I said "Does this have some mystical significance?" And he walked away. V And then Quite suddenly As the sun warmed Its little antennae showed themselves And then Quite suddenly Its little wings sprouted And it flew away.