The Luna Moth beats bright green wings against the dark window—
persistent wings pounding with the force
of fresh spring leaves
opening against a lagging winter wind,

wings driving an ancient messenger through obscure worlds
towards our brilliant night lights,

wings begging for complete attention
like snare drums played too loud
dramatizing an endangered list of magic tricks
we are allowed to see only once
or twice in a short life,

wings that force us to turn lights off
and look into a night sky with a sliver moon
and some faded stars flickering
around movements of churning clouds,

wings that suddenly become dark silhouettes
that we can trace on the cold glass
as we pause in the quiet dark house
observing the brilliant green
still pounding in our memory.