of Moths or Dust

I wait for the moths of my mind to stop their fluttering for a time.
To settle, like dust, on the surface of this autumn's reality.
So then they'll eat holes in possible plans, if I tuck them away in a drawer, to forget,
 as I prepare to drone through winter.
Or in spring, I can write a word in this layer, if  it's thick enough and has settled lifeless by then.