Is it bad luck to start a new creative endeavor when the moon is just blank in the sky? (That sounds like a poem, but it’s not.)
Here is a poem by James Tate.
Five Years Old
Stars fell all night.
The iceman had been very generous that day
with his chips and slivers.
And I had buried my pouch of jewels
inside a stone casket under the porch,
their beauty saved for another world.
And then my sister came home
and I threw a dart through her cheek
and cried all night,
so much did I worship her.