Sun and Moon
by Theodora Goss

Sometimes you forget
that you are magical. Sometimes
you forget that the moon
keeps her face turned earthward just
so she can watch over you —
she is so jealous of the sun,
who is allowed to play all day in your hair.
And why should she not be?

I cannot fault her, scarred
from floating alone above the firmament,
vulnerable to accident and time,
shining in the darkness. I cannot envy
the nights she spends looking down at you, sleeping
as though you were another Endymion.

But her sister the sun,
who walks beside you through the city streets
dressed in yellow, running her fingers over geraniums
in the window boxes, over the stone lions
perched on bridges spanning a river green as glass,
who leaves the red imprint of her lips on your forehead,
whom you smile at on summer mornings —
yes, her I envy.

(The images is a drawing by Simeon Solomon.)