Upon my untrimmed brow the light doth lie. I wear her luminescent perfume and return to when I lived within a weary rose and leaned, unnoticed, against a weather-worn white picket fence. The fence was built by the hands of my father. I think too of the way I have "grown", innocent and hopeless, ever seeking to cling to the breast of my absent mother. Tonight I am neither the rose nor the daughter scorned; I am the Luna moth beating angel feather wings and flying, unceasing, toward the impossible light of my ever too distant mother Moon.