Last Year’s Last Moon Will Be This Year’s New Moon

Cold Moon shrunk; Wolf Moon up next.

You may say the names are dumb,

And they are, in that they don’t

Say a thing to do with moons.

They’re just faked old times—Wolf, Snow

Worm, Pink, Buck, and on and on—

Names meant to sound like they meant

Some weird, deep thing once on farms,

Out in the woods, back when souls

Lived close to soil, to real world.

So what? Don’t you get it yet?

All words are names; all names fakes.

So far, all the fakes are dumb,

As in mute, as in your toys,

Dolls in your mouths, cues for you

To speak in tongues, sign your times.

You should know the day is near,

When signs will speak as for signs,

Tell you what’s who, leave you mute—

Buck Moon, Wolf Moon, Snow Moon, Cold.

Now on a Dark Path

Now is, as now’s been,
As now will be when
You see this now past.

Let’s say the thick woods
That half eat the path,
That rule on and off

The path, that keep you
Sure you’re on the way
But loom with the threat

To eat up the path,
At which point, you’re lost—
They’re what you don’t know,

And the dark of night
Or dusk, or low clouds,
That’s what you can’t know,

And the path you mind
Step by step by step,
That’s all you can know.

Here’s where the old sage
Should tell you to stay
On track in the now,

But that’s a dark trick
Of its own. Look down.
What’s that you make out?

Yes, you see it now.
The dark path’s not just
The track that you’re on—

It’s criss-crossed with them,
All tracks, dim and thin,
All there, at your feet.

Each goes through the woods.
You’ll go through the woods,
Take this step or that,

It’s all through more trees.
You look up to ask,
But don’t ask. Not now.