The Sun and the Moon

 

Daylight ever-creeping, the sun rises 

with a festered impatience, pushing the

 

moon out of the sky so he can rear his 

large head and scream down at the earth. 

 

Enlightenment walks with so many companions: 

Hand in hand, guided through the world like 

 

water in a flowing stream. Instinctive.

The moon, with fingers in her craters and 

 

fear in her voice, shrinks into the barren

space. Eyes closed, she prays to be 

 

enveloped by its vast emptiness. 

But she is not so lucky: the sun has left 

 

his mark on her home. Where her body used 

to lay so effortlessly now feels crooked 

 

and unseemly. Like the grit of your 

teeth against your tongue or a clock’s hands 

 

that tick just a second off beat: her stars 

are misaligned. Yet, the blue warmth of the sky 

 

embraces the sun with such gentle arms, so different

from the inhospitable dark that accompanies night. 

 

He, with his reaching rays and burning touch. So

revered at his mere procession into space. Yes,

 

he climbs quite quickly, but doesn’t her

careful ascent intrigue you? So the moon waits,

 

in her wonderfully uncomfortable home, knowing 

the sun is relishing in every second of her stifled 

 

disquietude. Because, with all these years,

she’s learned the only way past time is through.