051219b

Taking it Slow

A finite xenoflora,

in this refuge,

seamlessly recursive;

its fractal beaches

flower in the heat

of eviscerated stars.

Not timeless, this museum,

but expect changes back home

if you get out alive;

I recommend departure

before the big Evaporation,

official warnings almost

drowned in the furious sounds

of rampant vegetation.

It's been long enough:

she had the baby,

her brothers forgot you

or have passed on,

their annoying insistence

that a free spirit like you get hitched

the oldest of old news.

There are other girls,

but this place has no more exhibits

on its horizon,

time to take the tunnel,

which might still connect

this place to spacetime.

But what is this familiar face,

that firm hand on your shoulder,

those cadences reminiscent

of your erstwhile home?

Which short-straw grandchild was sent,

armed with a treasured holo,

to drag you out of this hole

to face the music,

and why?