Day Fifty-five

Today's words:
Moth
Iron
Hymn
Moon
Color
Trousers

A moth

Is batting its wings against the screen as I iron

The clothes. I hum a hymn

To the moon.

The color

Of these trousers

Has faded. I fold the faded trousers

And move on. The moth

Is the color

Of iron

And the moon

Is red. It's a hymn

To nature, a hymn

To serenity. Folded trousers,

A full moon,

And a moth,

While I iron.

The color

Of the scene is muted. It's an absence of color.

But the warriors sing a different hymn,

One to iron

Turned to weapons. These trousers

Have been nibbled by a moth.

It's not asking for the moon

To wish for peace. The moon

Is now the color

Of a dream, or that of a moth

Singing a hymn.

They say the dictator's trousers

Were made of iron.

Certainly his ruled with an iron

Fist, and would be quick to exile you to the moon

If he didn't like the cut of your trousers,

Or their color.

Still he's remembered in a hymn

And we're drawn like a moth

To a flame to worship iron and its color.

Meanwhile, on the moon, the exiles sing a hymn

To trousers eaten by a moth.