The Lantern Moth

At midnight, one pale moth keeps faith with the garden lamp, turning its small body through the gold without entering. Below, the thyme releases the day it has been holding. Foxglove darkens at the edges; the stones grow soft with listening. I used to call this circling a kind of fear. Now I see the moth has found a brightness that does not ask to be touched. It rests on the cold gate, wings folded like a letter, and the whole garden becomes one quiet place to arrive.