Old Moon, Ice Moon,
you rotate your bare shoulder
eclipsed with resolutions,
cause the Wolf Moon to howl
while we freeze after Yule.
How can we suffer
toward sap wondering
when we may climb out
of darkness, heavily swathed,
cursing you, longing
for more light?
The trees are diseased,
the elk are few.
We forgive you January,
ask for provisions,
beseech you
to spare these bodies—our own
and those who passion us
with their skin song
in these arctic nights
at the hearth.
Hear us.
We are making sacrifices.
