New Moon:
through the dark foil of festered
clouds, it peeps,
a lone trinket of heaven,
opening the buds and petals
of disconcerted graces

Half Moon:
incensed, this day, by the underfed
roots of our patterns last season,
oblations are widened, and the
pestilence begins to abate

Gibbous:
we await the digression of the earth,
embers fanning the dark fumes of
buried meals, while the ember days
stretch in sloth’s speed.

Full Moon:
cupola of the earth’s pillars,
cynosure of breath’s basket,
clover-oriented, but in communal
fete, we dine on grains and wine on
hemlock.