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.