Tranquility of a moth

Hums through the grasslands

Wings drawn bright and broad

Abounding colors to its demand

In its trifling fingertips

Lugging nothing but a dandelion

“That is nothing but a weed!”

a small chipmunk chipped

“It’s for my dear horizon!

A weed to you is a treasure to me,

And I’d pick each daisy,

And scavenge each sea,

Or sacrifice my wings.

I’d feel the vigor of my legs

Just to give her my guarantee.”

The chipmunk huffed.

“But why, Mrs. Moth?”

“Why would you ask such a question!"

“You cannot look at the sun!”

“But dear little chipmunk,

I love her imperfections"