Dry Geometry

I went into the shed to find the rake,

clearing the dust from the window's edge.

I paused at a structure I couldn't break,

anchored to the sill and the rotting ledge.

It was a moth, or what the winter left,

suspended in a rig of silver thread.

A tiny body of its life bereft,

yet perfectly preserved among the dead.

One wing was translucent as parchment paper,

caught in a tether that refused to give.

A small, still ghost in a frozen vapor,

showing me how the fragile things still live.

I left the corner dark and let it stay.

Some structures are too quiet to sweep away.