Luck is like a tide
pulled by the moon,
Undulating through the undertow.
None can tell how far that tide might go,
Afloat upon the wash's wind-blown spume.
Remember, then, each year to celebrate
New turnings of the tide that bears us all,
Each to ends no flailing can forestall,
Whether good or ill, the choice of fate.
Yet knowing well one's wishes face the wind,
Even so, one does what one can do,
Alert to rituals that spirits woo,
Rendering what renders them