Sunday, March 12, 2017


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,
she supposes,
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.


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