The poem is about the small act of writing a journal entry and what it is for. The speaker lists three things from the day: ice on a road, a moth's wing, and "the very me I am." The first two are tiny, fragile things noticed in passing. The third is odd and a little startling, because the speaker puts their own self on the same list, as if it were one more thing to observe and record.
In the second stanza, the notes become a kind of savings account. The day is "like clear money," something clean and valuable that can be "called for when I please." The speaker seems quietly satisfied, even confident, that writing preserves what would otherwise slip away. The mood is calm and reflective, with a hint of wonder. There's also a gentle fragility underneath: ice melts, moths are delicate, and a self changes. Writing is how the speaker tries to hold on to them.