Frost Flitters
December moths are loyal to their name,
Defying Autumn’s dying –
Hugged in furs, as charcoal as the nights,
These moths keep flying –
And yet, they earn so little fame,
From folklores, who ignore them –
However much they circle fairy lights
With soft decorum.
They’re on the wing for Halloween,
Yet bats have all the glory,
And then they’re just too dark to stake a claim
For the robin’s story.
These spinners of the Winter slip between,
Ours fears and holy writ,
But touch on neither, failing at the game –
They just don’t seem to fit.
All the Summer, lappets gorge on oaks,
Unnoticed then as well –
Pupating into eggars with the acorns,
Till a colder spell.
They hatch as the dead are donning cloaks,
As if by frost released –
Then die at the time of the manger-born,
From fasting through the feast.
Rhyming Couplets 