homing in

The thing was still warm

I have the end in my sights at last
you see,
oxygen snow and a brilliance
of distant fires,
no message, just, the machine worked,
a vacuum tube blew:
plenty of vac here,
but no tubes,
air limited to what I brought.
The envelope,
it's for my wife,
deliver after May 14, 1906,
but don't wait too long;
she deserves to love again.

I'll just pop back a century or two,
to just after he wrote
that sweet farewell;
she should have
cake & meal, don't you know.