Butterfly ash, forgoteen on the petal, of an orange chirping afternoon, stain spot, of coffee, or lipstick, trailing too a violin shop, with tiny finger prints, left on the shop window, a moths wisdom, fluttering by my wool ear, it listens too unsolved symphonies, or graveless Mozart, and leaves at 2 a.m., out my window, and when i wake, the moth is back, standing on 6a.m., there is nothing to say, so it stays.