embers of a picnic
The converter rattles and she sighs,
nostalgic for the homeworld she has never seen.
So many journeys have criss-crossed space,
obscuring pioneer footsteps,
and suddenly the world is lost,
its location and even name forgotten,
only a few lines of poetry remembered,
and brittle fragments of maps preserved with care.
No one thought they'd lose it,
but much was lost during the Troubled Times.
She traces a river on a map
(imagine, molten ice, free upon the surface)
and dreams of picnics, gamboling wolverines, and oxide-painted hills.
You can't go back, but you can
reenact ancient ritual as a form of worship --
Cold it might be,
and breathers required,
but a picnic they could have.