When the Moth Came

A flicker of wings through the open door,

no accident, but something more.

Not butterfly, but night’s own kin,

a quiet voice that draws me in.

No past, no plan, no borrowed light,

just presence held within the night.

A soft hello, a mother’s trace,

in this small creature, I find her grace.

Tonight, a moth flew into my space—small, unassuming, yet carrying with it both memory and meaning. I call moths mama, because they remind me of her presence—quiet, constant, near. Unlike the butterflies that scatter through the daylight, moths belong to night, to the unseen hours, to the deeper call of stillness.

It did not interrupt me. It invited me—to pause, to notice, to remember. The moth asked nothing but gave everything: presence. It lingered by the red glow, content with its place, while I found myself softened into the moment. No thought of tomorrow, no weight of yesterday—only this: wings, light, silence, and the knowing that love arrives in many forms, if only I stay open to see.

With Grace & Ink,

Mai