Moth

I am not sure why I should have such a fear of moths,
knowing them to be harmless, but, alas, I do.
Nor do I know what it is
that so alarms me - perhaps the size of the body,
gross against the slim form of the butterfly,
perhaps the pulse that I seem to sense in the brown and grey moth wings,
when forced to touch or hold them.  Today’s moth,
encountered while mowing the lawn,
I could identify:  a yellow underwing, scrambling helplessly about,
nervously flashing the bright yellow beneath its upper browns, but
seemingly unable to fly very far, and in my way.
This moth was beautiful, I suppose, but also very big -
but also not to be destroyed.  It took a lot of nerve
to stop and scoop it up, but I am glad I did.
It lifted out of my trembling hands, to fall rather than fly
down onto that part of the lawn I had already mowed:
a life saved (for now) despite my fear.  And a small hooray as, settling into its new refuge,
the moth quickly hid the bright yellow of its lower wings, to become
just one more withered leaf, snagged in the shortened grass.