“Summer now, and the petals are wet in the morning. The moon was born four and a half billion years ago. It’s been goddess, god, sister, bridge, vessel, mother, lover, other. ‘Civilisations still fight / Over your gender,’ writes Priya Sarukkai Chabria. Dew is one of its daughters—or so the Spartan lyric poet Alcman had it in the mid-seventh-century B.C.: ‘Dew, a child of moon and air / causes the deergrass to grow.’ Cyrano de Bergerac, twenty-three hundred years later, imagined a dew-fueled way of getting to the moon. ‘I planted myself in the middle of a great many Glasses full of Dew, tied fast above me,’ he writes in his satirical A Voyage to the Moon, published in 1657. If dew rises to the sky, evaporating into the atmosphere, he reasons, enough ought to take him, too. ...”
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