Moths

The moths came just before Christmas: 

dust-crumbling parchment specks

blowing in through opened doors 

glowing on the television screen

flecks of life against the dark and light. 

Then the storm took them.

I carry your sorrow through this time

in the cupped hands of my thoughts,

in spite of knowing that I can't

release it, whole, uncrushed, into the night,

or take even a moth's wing's weight of it away

from you.