New moon at sunset,
caught in the branches of the oak—
Full moon at midnight
dazzling the skin of snow—
Thin moon before dawn
rising in Earth’s darkest sky—
you are the sign
of every woman growing old.
All myths repeat themselves
in vision and in dream—
Now that I am waning
into the crescent C—
Cry, Crone, Crypt—
I am convinced:
every myth is true.
Artemis, moon-bow of my youth
bends back into the winter dawn
and comes to me where three ways meet.
Her lamp casts shadows on the way.
She gives me one of her hounds—
a small yellow dog who watches crows,
wild dog who understands what death is for,
who wakes to foxes barking in the dark.