Holly Haworth ""trace[s] the moon through the traceless sky"" in a meditation on time's cyclical nature and how it slips away--and on writing as a way of time-keeping, poetry a tool for etching memory. Here we find Haworth no less in thrall to language than to the land. As she probes the failure of words to capture the world, she puts us under a spell, enlivening our hearts with nature and mystery. Moments become visceral acts of communion, of sensual presence. There is a devotion here both to the death that is inherent to time's passing, and to the life that is constantly arising. Mournful lament and exuberant praise, The Way the Moon compels us to stop in our tracks and savor even the losses.