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The Moth

The fingers of my right hand are stained,
smudged by the smeared scales
of rumpled wings.
A half-crushed moth
quivers in my left palm.
It will not outlive my regret
for a startled swat
undeserved.
I consider:
fallen sparrows
wilted lilies
crushed moths.
Sacred beauties all. Fragile all.
Too fleeting to hold for long.
I wipe tears on my shirtsleeve
and pray for a little more permanence.
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Liv is an urban monk, a poet, a painter, a birder, and a student of Christian Spirituality. She has been engaged in creative writing more or less consistently for two decades and was slightly startled, though far from displeased, to discover that poetry is her medium. When she’s not writing, Liv practices gardening, pipe-smoking, leather-working, and mischief. She has been published in Loft Books, The Blue Daisies Journal, The Way Back To Ourselves, and Vessels of Light. Peeks into her work can be found on Instagram and Twitter.

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