The moon is grim and sly, and keeps
Pale secrets from her twin.
She hides the darkest of her blushes
Behind a slivered grin.
Her greater, fertile, sister earth,
Greater in girth, not age,
Knows a pallid, pock-marked cheek
But not a shaded rage.
A barren spinster, gray from birth,
Can scarcely bear to see
From callous sister such a show
Of broad fecundity.
