The white moth emerged

in the soft light of the morning, 

almost camouflaged against

the pearly bathroom wall.

 

Full of sleep and wonder,

startled by its fresh presence,

I nodded in acknowledgment,

a kinship with its perching.

 

Next morning, three red drops:

a vertical line, like dried blood.

Unaware of life cycles, I worried

about potential causes of illness

 

while my love began to panic;

her fear of moths, forgotten. 

Quickly, then, I balanced on a corner

of the bathtub with my tools—

a pint glass and a postcard—

to save them both.