Tuesday, March 17, 2015


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 ~

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