MARTIAN RAINS
Closed eyes
bring darkened patterns
of red and
black
from a distant
sun,
and visions of
home
far, far away.
A slight
breeze,
and a touch of
cold
as Winter
relents to Spring
on this
desolate planet.
She clears her
visor
with a gloved
hand.
Flowers
clutched through polyurethane
are cautiously
carried to the shelter.
Pungent are
their scent;
rare are their
form.
For flowers
have not bloomed
on the Martian
plains
for eons.
They capture
the essence
of a terrain
forgotten with time.
When waters
flowed and blessed the soil.
Now red dust is
sprinkled
with uranium
waters
where crystals
drift downward,
then endlessly
float into frigid skies.
The rains
affect perfume intoxicatingly mysterious,
and toxic with
radioactive splendor.
How they
sparkle in the Martian twilight:
a present for
her beloved.
hempdresser ~
