New Moon

This month, the new moon is an empty slate,
A dream of nothing. Hang a fever on
The crescent's point now — soon that will be gone,
As full moon, coming at a torrid rate,
Rounds out the fortnight, grown rotund and great,
But short-lived; like a lover pale and wan,
Now half again, and smaller yet, it shone
Then vanished, back to a potential state.

They say time is a trickster and a thief,
But things return to what they were, and soon
(Spring, winter, back to spring; noon, midnight, noon),
So turn the page. To mourn each falling leaf
Is just a fraudulent display of grief
That waxes, wanes, and waxes with the moon.