For a Moth named Benedict
Autumn is the windy day.
Autumn are the nimbostrati.
Autumn are the flexible points of grass.
Autumn the leaves tainted gold and green.
Autumn is the fragrant smoke of November.
Autumn, the noontime sky full of quail
and cloud in the shape of a bird.
Dusk drew forth its magenta mist
and all things great and small knew this,
I then saw a black butterfly flying by
and I gave it the name Bertram,
because it reminded me of Benedict.
Benedict, the brown moth guest of my house.
As light shrinks I bade Bertram good day.
And to the wonder of the observer
the clouds were a dome's painting,
depicting Michael confronting Lucifer
in fair shades and dark shades of color
until the eve of twilight when skies darken,
the pinion of the archangel still glowed
but the dragon's form had been obscured.
An autumn pity for the fallen ants
unfearing, hardworking, and willing
to serve like the Myrmidons of old.
The candles seem to call for night,
the nocturnal choir and orchestra
of crickets and ghost conductors
commence a movement for this night.