I look at the decorative paper with colored illustrations of moths. They’re beautiful–why don’t people write more odes to moths? A moth is free.
The moth just like the butterfly comes to know flight, but when it’s sedentary it rests with its wings open unlike the butterfly. Why don’t we champion how it waits within this state of openness.
How when the moment comes it’ll be closer to readiness.

I look back at the many drawings on that same thin sheet over my desk and I want to cry. I guess I’m staying here a little longer; I will sit and rest like a moth–
preparing until I, too can take to the skies.