I dreamt of a moth, large wings speckled like a hen's brown egg, each inked with an eye, the iris tobacco stain

It hovered above me, above the bed I lay within, swift wings brushing against my flesh, leaving a fine rich powder, henna patterns that mapped an unknown route upon my hands

Sepia shadows swayed in the warm breeze, directing the moth to the window that opened to my garden, sun drained hydrangea still bold in the globes of parchment petals, deep coffee grounds rubbed into their veins

The moth followed this breeze into the bronze halo of midday, pulling with it a thread, tugging at my slumber, stirring my eyes in a flutter, the ceiling above me adorned with an imprint of your hand, around mine the impression of a tie that binds

E.A. O'Connell