A Pretty Chaos

The moth beats its heavy wings,
struggling to the light,
the promise of pretty things,
and deliverance from the night.

The rain frees from clouds,
rippling through the air,
longing to kiss the grounds,
and shimmer in people's hair.

The flower reaches high,
curling beneath the sun,
rich heat-soaked petals cry,
at last, my growth is done.

It's all a pretty chaos,
time and night and day,
a bittersweet song sung to us,
before the final decay.

M.