Takaka

I think of the moth I rescued from the candle
and how I cupped it carefully in my hands
so as not to frighten it.
How I turned it out into the night
and how sorry I was to see the beginnings of a fine rain.
I don’t know when I lost the fear of things
smaller than my hands.
There was a time, when we would return
each earth worm to the brown turf
rather than see them strand themselves
like tiny sea slugs on the pavement.
It made for a long walk home to a house
with no power or phone and one candle that burned.
What is it to rescue something from one death
only to propel it to the next?
I apologize for my hands, the way they look and
the gestures they make. One day I will take the palmist’s advice
and return to my green witch roots,
dig my hands into the soil and grow trees from saplings.
On the main road in Takaka, I let go of your daughter’s hand.
It was so small and slippery like a baby bird.
She ran out onto the street and the driver of the car
who slammed on his brakes screamed,
‘What kind of a mother are you?’
We went to a café and drank our water in silence.
Your daughter tipped the sugar from its bowl,
and slowly pushed the granules into shapes on the table.