The sky was a shimmering periwinkle. I watched as tears fell from the blue, soft and bright as molten diamonds.

“The moon is crying,” my mother said. She gathered my basket of seashells in her arms and set off across the sand.

“Why does the moon cry?” I asked.

Those same tears fell each night but I’d always thought them beautiful, not sad.

“The moon has always loved the sun, and yet they will never share the same sky. She holds onto whatever light he might spare her when his burning is done, but she is otherwise alone.”

“She’s not alone – she has the stars!”

My mother smiled. “And there are so many stars in the sky, are there not? And we, the people, adore her, do we not? Our poetry for...

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