Who watches from the mirrored darkness
outside the well-lit room in which I rest,
half-finished sweater in my lap, hands idle?
Who sees my idleness, this night, when
bright snowflakes dance like summer moths
around the streetlamp’s pale pink flame?
Who considers such rosy light—beyond my
frost-bordered window frame—that seems,
from where I watch, to burn without ardor?
Who wanders winter’s final stand, passing
close in this darkening night, which I,
protected from the cold, admire with delight?
Who wonders at my idle hands, the dreaminess
veiling my eyes, as I, myself, am wondering:
Toward what warm flame does that moth fly?
© 2020 by Hannah Six
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