The Flame and the Moth

Her powdery wings unfolded as she emerges
The beauty of her, moving into adulthood
shown through her first attempts at flight.

First here, then there,
Flittering in her herky jerky way.
A bit of orange flashed across the
Dusty beige of her perfectly sculpted wings.

Dancing as her kind has done since time began
Circling, ever closer, darting in and out
Now here, then there
Was it flittering or is that flirting.
No matter, it tugs at the heart of the ancient one

And he waited as he has done since time began.
Since men first found him.
Lifting higher, now lower, beckoning yet relenting.
The aura of his reds and oranges, with all the colors, some hidden, some not
now caressing her soft wings.

And the warmth, closer now, the heat
surrounds her and beckons her ever closer.
There is never reaching for her, though his heart longs.
It is not his to decide, but hers.

He is just there, sometimes dancing in the wind,
Sometimes only a faint glow only to rise up again
And touch her lightly with a finger of brilliant yellow, now orange.
It cannot be. It can never be, but what if;
And she darts ever closer.

He doesn’t reach, but she touches him. He can’t pull away.
Her heart and mind collide with the desire
and the pain of his accepting touch.
Still she circles. Lazily resting in his warmth
But reluctant to move too close again.

And the ancient one waits, content to be near
what is never to be his, what can never be his.
He moves from brilliant yellows to soft reds and glorious blue.
Settling now, warming the night air around him.

She sees his resign, wonders at his patience
Why must it be so; why no touch, no soft caress?
Closer, ever closer. At once unable to resist but warned by her slight encounter.
It matters not, she was born to be near.

No longer can she resist; swirling in a flurry of gossamer wings
The beat of her heart as frantic as the beat of her wings.
She touches, feels the warmth of the returned touch.
The ancient does not move, afraid to caress her soft form with his glowing touch.

Still she lingers, never giving herself totally
but dancing in embrace of his colors
Tantalized by the wonders of the age.
It was never meant to be but still it is and she, he cannot deny.

As the night wind grows stronger, his embers hiss
And dance with a thousand shades and colors.
Still she lingers, held captive by her heart and the warmth.
Her mind reaches for him and he is gone.

Ashes remain. Her heart trembles.
Was he really ever here? And she knows he was
The ancient one, older than man, as old as the earth itself.
Discovered by man, she loves him and carries him always in her heart, knowing he could have consumed her.
Wishing in some part of her that he had, loving him because he did not.

Remembering their time together and the warmth of his touch when he held her, loved her.
Still it was. Brief, tender, the ancient and the moth never to be forever, but always to be near. Their secret touch only for them.