There’s a kind of white moth, I don’t know <br />what kind, that glimmers <br />by mid-May <br />in the forest, just <br />as the pink mocassin flowers <br />are rising. <br /> <br />If you notice anything, <br />it leads you to notice <br />more <br />and more. <br /> <br />And anyway <br />I was so full of energy. <br />I was always running around, looking <br />at this and that. <br /> <br />If I stopped <br />the pain <br />was unbearable. <br /> <br />If I stopped and thought, maybe <br />the world <br />can’t be saved, <br />the pain <br />was unbearable. <br /> <br />Finally, I noticed enough. <br />All around me in the forest <br />the white moths floated. <br /> <br />How long do they live, fluttering <br />in and out of the shadows? <br /> <br />You aren’t much, I said <br />one day to my reflection <br />in a green pond, <br />and grinned. <br /> <br />The wings of the moths catch the sunlight <br />and burn <br />so brightly. <br /> <br />At night, sometimes, <br />they slip between the pink lobes <br />of the moccasin flowers and lie there until dawn, <br />motionless <br />in those dark halls of honey.<br /><br />Mary Oliver<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-moths/
