First night of the month—
 
the waning moon pours itself
 
into my teacup.

 
 
 

Little brown sparrow,
 
how brightly you sing again
 
after the new moon!

 
 
 

Night of the new moon—
 
I stumble in the darkness
 
on my homeward way.

 
 
 

Wane, strawberry moon!
 
I’ll keep following the voice
 
of the great horned owl.

 

 
 
 

Little brown sparrow,
 
were you fast asleep last night
 
when the full moon rose?

 

 
 
 

A red-winged blackbird,
 
perching on a twilit reed,
 
bends it toward the moon.

 
 
 

If the moon should freeze,
 
how would I find my way home
 
on this wintry night?

 
 
 

On a full-moon night
 
how pleasant to cross the bridge
 
without a lantern!

 
 
 

If you need answers,
 
listen to the corn growing
 
under the full moon.

 
 
 

When a poet dies,
 
who takes up the words she leaves?
 
Sing, moon, and croon, sheaves!