In the dark window
twenty pale moths flutter and rise.
This is what moths
are made to do,
to fly toward what they want
and not give up.
In the kitchen light
I watch them crawl
across my reflection.
I imagine flying
toward my own light
and never giving up,
yes, burning all my
excuses, all my stories,
flying into that flame.
Pretty images of the moths, especially as the “crawl across [your] reflection.”