The moon is like a woman,
Ever changing, waxing, waning,
Sometimes bright and cheery,
Sometimes dark and gloomy,
Mysterious, exotic.

The sun is male in nature,
Fiercely burning, glowing, searing,
Sometimes weak and distant,
At times too strong for comfort,
Opinionated, macho.

The firmament their bedroom,
Seldom mingling, always circling,
On occasion spying,
Each other ‘cross the room,
Suspiciously intrigued.

Only very rarely,
When the stars align correctly,
She will climb upon him,
Gently she will take him,
Occluding all from view.

The earth their favored offspring,
When she’s craving their attention,
Runs right in-between them,
Hides her mother’s blushing,
Sweet face from father’s glare.

As witnesses we ponder,
When idle moments do arise,
How such things come to pass,
How energy and mass,
Such wondrous things prepare.