There's The Sun Poem by William L Roberts

There's the sun, low, an horizon on fire.
Turn.
There's the moon, no higher,
Sweet with promise, golden and serene.
Me, I stand on a hill, halfway between.

My project's finished.
We'd worked non-stop just to wrap it up.
With it done, I felt kinda down,
So I with a friend,
I climbed up the high point in town -
The old dump, capped over with grass
And in fact now quite nice,
Certainly the high point for miles around.

'Which is rising? which is setting?
Tell me friend, tell me true,
I've stepped out of time
I haven't a clue.'
My friend doesn't answer
He's dealing with some anger
- Not without justification -
I've drunk all the wine
And left him none.
Though he's just the bottle,
Still he complains: 'You could've left some for me,
If only just a little.'

'Sun, oh my Sun, tell me true,
Is it you who's rising? Is it you? '
Its reply:
'From here I see a young couple,
Working in their yard.
Sweat gleams on their legs and their arms,
Sweat dampens their t-shirts.
They've tilled the soil along the walk,
They've mixed in compost and phosphate,
They've dug careful holes two feet apart.
From a child's pool filled with water
They've taken bundles of thorny branches,
Drab, devoid of color,
And set them in the holes.
They've carefully returned the dirt,
And adjusted each's height.
Now as the hose wets the earth,
They sit side by side on the grass,
A beer nestled halfway between.
Their eyes don't see the sticks,
They're fixed on the roses that will bud and bloom -
Next Summer's promise.'

'Moon, oh my Moon, tell me true
Is it you who's rising? Is it you? '
'I look through a skylight
Down into a brightly floodlit loft.
On the wall hangs an old painting, a print
Of Adam and Eve under a tree,
Its bows bent with fruit
- And of course with that old snake -
Behind them's an orchard in impossible bloom.
She holds the apple for him to taste,
He looks at her not the fruit
In his eyes there's nothing but trust.
Before the painting a woman moves,
Half listening to the photographer's suggestions,
Half thinking of the painting,
Half thinking of her imagined partner.
All the pictures taken,
Onto a rug she tumbles and they couple,
His mind still a tangle
Of light, of shadow,
Of beauty, of color,
Of form, of angle,
And she, lying there,
Touching the frame with lifted ankle,
Looks up at the painting.
'What's with the apple, '
She asks as he labors.
'Maybe it symbolizes her nice gift to Adam, '
He pants, cupping a breast.
'Idiot', she says, slapping his wrist,
'Everyone likes an apple,
Especially those early farming people
Who couldn't like just go to the store.
It's her gift to us all.
There never was a fall.''

I see there's a message on my cell.
'They like it, more funding's sure to come,
Let's meet tomorrow and talk out what's to be done.'
So I set off down the hill,
Mind hot with code, hot with design, hot with planning.
The answer, I feel, is that for now, with luck,
Both are rising.