On Silent Wings

On silent wings, edged with fine lace
a moth comes gliding to retrace
the path that leads to candle’s light
to moon’s reflection, silver-bright
to timeless times outside of space.

She leaves no ash nor dusty trace,
no sound of passage through this place,
the air is unmarked by her flight
on silent wings.

There’s nothing there, my reason says.
These moth-dreams fade at break of day,
give up the ghost at end of night.
Confess, my reason has it right—
but all the time, my heart’s away
on silent wings.