The porch of the early 20th century house in Paradise in the Chiricahua Mountains, Arizona, where the poet enjoyed happy stays in all seasons
The moth
that flew out from the forest
with black wings open like hands
and slapped against the door screen
was a messenger
for rain.
It had escaped
a book of legends, entered present time
after centuries of mystery
and peeled itself away
from the secrets in the trees. Monsoon;
red earth flowing; lightning
with fire at its tip. And a small face
demanding
to be allowed inside. Thunder
pried its wings apart. A flash
stripped every living thing
to bone and fear, but upon its expiration
the deer came quietly
back and the jays fluffed out
their feathers
to shake the water
off. And quickly
as the downpour had announced
itself the moth pulled free, whispered
to the steaming grass
and became sunlight.
