Thursday, December 04, 2008


These days as I look out the window of the guest bathroom or out the kitchen window (by the sink) I see little moths fluttering and trying to get in. It could be the light or the warmth they sense is on the other side of the window. They are insects at the end of their cycle.



They remind me of other animals I have seen in the throws of death. For all of us this is an exit we take alone, Hollywood scenes of Lionel Barrymore dying in bed surrounded by his loving family to the contrary. The fluttering of the moth's wings even reminds me of the little vibration in the body of a fighting bull moments before it dies on the sandy arena after it has been pierced by the matador's sword. In that huge arena of cheering people the 600kg bull seems small and pitifully alone. It dies surrounded by thousands of spectators. Is it any different to the shocking image of a dying crow in my garden as its wings like that moth's flutter and then stop?

Sow bugs and other bugs die by the thousands in my garden unseen, but those little moths hit home and sadden me. They are so persistent, trying to live for a few minutes or seconds more.

As the moths fade away I try not to go to the garden. The cold repels and the mush of my hostas as they fade into the ground is a sobering and unwelcome sight. But today I ventured outside anyway and I was rewarded by English Rose Coverdale. There were two blooms that had managed to open. And Rosa 'Ghislaine de Feligonde' while not in bloom sported beautiful new foliage that contrasted with the reddish older leaves. Those very leaves might have little holes next spring as the offspring of those little winter moths chew their way to an eventual confrontation with my kitchen window.



I momentarily forgot about my lonely moths but not forgetting that my own turn by the window in winter will come.