Deep in the dark, a restless moth stirred.
The beetle beside him felt not a thing,
turned right around and slept like a king.
But all around the air had been angered.
It crossed the world, its particles clustered.
Wilder it grew from that flap of a wing.
Deep in the dark, a restless moth stirred.
The beetle beside him felt not a thing.
The wind escaped like a ghost from a cupboard.
It blew down a man who was a mountain climbing.
And aided another who had gone out sailing.
A whirlwind was coming and men spread the word.
Deep in the dark, a restless moth stirred.
(A rondel, written in 2009, as an experiment.)
