April is the cruelest month for moths
that, having spent all winter in a cocoon,
eclose too soon and find themselves
crawling, cold, on a busy sidewalk,
an impossible distance yet to go
before a real spring with no snow.
The dark-eyed moth that my son saw
this morning and that burrowed its
buff-colored bison head into my hand
is now named Napoleon, my son tells me.
Napoleon, who unfurled his proboscis,
tasted my palm for nectar, salt. Napoleon,
now in our dining room, in an enclosure
that was folded up, awaiting monarchs.