Snow fell at midnight.
 
The waxing moon was hidden.
 
You forgot my name.

 
 
 

The Wolf Moon’s howling
 
as though it wants to be free
 
of its starry chains.

 
 
 

The same waxing moon
 
that comforted my father
 
shines to comfort me.

 
 
 

From my eager eyes,
 
clouds conceal the waxing moon—
 
Yuletide misfortune.

 
 
 

December’s new moon—
 
a plunge into deep darkness
 
just before Christmas

 
 
 

Peeping-Tom Cold Moon,
 
you’re peering in my window—
 
I close the curtains.

 
 
 

Last night of the month—
 
by the waxing crescent moon
 
I make my way home.

 
 
 

The Full Beaver Moon
 
guides early-morning voters
 
to the polling place.

 
 
 

The first-quarter moon
 
shines through my kitchen window—
 
every dish lights up.

 
 
 

October sorrow—
 
watching the full hunter’s moon
 
slip into darkness.