I always fall asleep on lunar eclipses: I never know when
to go out and look to the night sky unless I’m told.

Eve by eve, I don’t rehearse lunar phases,
sounding them out like nursery rhymes.

Crescent to crescent, I can’t recite their full names.
Not the twelve for astrology, that’s easy.

No, the ones from the mouths of our ancestors:
Wolf Moon and Flower Moon and Harvest Moon.

The moon’s always somewhere. I trust it enough
that I only sporadically check in.