Gabrielle

You found the moth on the side of the road,
fluttering faintly with ragged rips in its mottled wings.
”Gabrielle" you named her, why you didn't know,
and picked up the injured creature, carried her to the minivan,
tried to feed her and give her water,
and cried when she pooped and died.

Profound daughter! You discovered that life leaks suffering,
yet you managed to hold off your tears until you told me the whole story.
I held you close and joined your mourning.
"God gives us beauty of all kinds," I said,
"and sometimes it doesn't last."
Theology's comfort has nothing on Dad's lap when you're eight,
so you cried some more and I stroked your back.
Though you hurt so bad over a mere moth,
I grieved more for you, child, because soon
you will not notice mangled moths on roads' shoulders.