Day springs, an omelet, sunny side is up
Night falls, depleted, hash of all that's been.
Day dresses for success, drinks coffee cup.
Night crawls to bed. She's naked and obscene.
Reflections of each other, they attempt
to meet whenever Time itself allows,
and treasure those brief moments that exempt,
allowing Night to waken, Day to drowse.
Can poetry exist, and have its say
without the daily rhythm of our lives?
On tide locked planets, absent night or day,
do sonnets praise both mistresses and wives?
We do not know, but I do hope to read
their poetry. It's alien indeed.
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