Mother Moon and Father Sun Take a Smoke Break (NaPoWriMo17 11/30)

Mother Moon wanes, hides

in the moments just before dawn.

Hanging on to the last

perched

at the horizon

bushes and fog obscure

her once stately features.

The night clings to her

sings to her

birds heralding her retreat

pigeons, pecking at

cigarette butts,

the destitute

grasping

for one last drag.

 

Father Sun

bookends the beginning

of the day, subsidized housing

in the vaults of heaven

shoring up the infirm

and impecunious.

Characters of stories

both husband and wife

shine upon

shadows, wistfully

waft from the throne

a corona of smoke.

And they do not speak during their morning constitution

but signaling

as she beats her rugs

that he has long stamped upon

and shorn his stately visage

carrying younger than her years

yet he shall always remain in her.

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