The second sun sets late this night,
descending now as the rays of the first
stretching northward; like a drowning angel
in moments gone, its sky-chasing sister
is left weeping golden trickles
as if reaching down too late, as always,
in their eternal, sorrowful playground chase.
I watched you both as you crossed the dome,
tendrils touching in gleeful anticipation
of a moment that can never come
for two star-crossed siblings, your nature
destined never quite to meet, or, at least,
not until long after these eyes of mine
are faded and gone.
The second sun sleeps still today.
Her elder sister rises over jagged lances of green,
over a turret of stone amid slants of thatch,
her teasing beams as fiery arrows piercing
the shelter of this ocean-side grove.
But here she comes – that indefatigable orb
on her timeless carousel, spilling
a glittering greeting, painting the waters
with a billion fairy wisps, and up she glides
as the chase repeats, and I crack a crooked smile
as I turn and enter my dwelling, almost alone
on this world, watching the sisters by day,
and, come the night, with my eyes set afar,
locked to a single star, the ritual wonder
ever in mind: who watches the sisters from Earth?
Copyright © 2018 Scott Kaelen
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