So as not fall into the older metric rut and everything ten, we stay in our nine to pause and reflect before we are ten. Iambic pentameter may do for us now in a verse leaving minds totally blank. A sonnet or two may awake a conscience to avoid our falling into sleep analogy.
Comparisons are the best for viewing. However odious, we know relative sizes and the light they cast on our daytime. At night it will be a different ballgame when moon hides in tall coconut trees and big or small, be crescent or ringed, comparisons are day-wise in fortnight.
Moon is eaten by the earth bit by bit. A demon drank nectar surreptitiously and annually eats the moon as if pie. Moon has turned marble like the graves of our older ancestors and not so old. A stitch in time will save all our nine we say Poloniusly in window curtains. It is where we hide snooping on death.
In any case we just burn our ancestors rarely bury them in moon-like graves.We are not rich to afford tall pyramids.(Neither borrower nor lender be policy.Borrowing dulls the edge of husbandry.)
Nine nights , nine days we spin yarns what we have learnt by our nine holes.We have to stop some where by meter, before our holes are lost in a big Hole.