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 sadness 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