Magic is the thread between us
and moths released in the night.
The jade of eight luna moths
to the dust-filled ceiling of the sky.
Fluttering like leaves in the windward
lee of darkness.
Children shared between us and their mother,
caught in a bog of rain and storm.
Depositing her precious eggs of life
on our window before dying.
We cherished them for two months,
sheltering and feeding them,
each step, on their unlikely steps
of survival, egg, caterpillar emerald,
until they slept in silk beds of leaf
and web.
And a family waited for them to wake,
and come to the final league
of their voyages.
Now they are leaving,
their life story in us.
And Mary will exclaim again and again
as they fly above us, it’s MAGIC!