The morning moon wears a crooked smile
and she recites from the book of ancient discipline:
From blood to blood her intent is a sliver of light, so
she sets her face against the mouth of morning.
Who can say what the moon knows, wearing her wry smile?
Who can say, but the cat in the window, or the dog in the manger?
Who can smile on this dark path, this foreign night —
but sister moon? Sister moon, questioning the
Aurora; daring Apollo’s chariot, the hundred arrows,
the last dip in watery discipline, the heart on the sleeve,
and the sleeping cat by the secret hearth. She dares
with her knowing smile. She blesses the living
And the ghostly memories. She blesses the haunts
And the virgin dreams. She blesses the book and
The silver candle. The morning moon, not yet
gone to bed. Will she wait for the sun? Ah,
she will return, with her smile, back into the night.