a love letter to the man in the moon, hour eight

Perhaps ‘love letter’ is a bit too strong-

a letter of admiration, perhaps?

 

An isolation song to hum to,

floating alone in your little time capsule,

waiting for a channel change.

 

How’s the view? Does the dust swirl,

long-dead lava tubes echoing sussurations

of your breathing in the thinnest stratosphere?

 

Do you look back and think it was worth it?

At the footprints in moon dust, like Crusoe,

admiring the anthropology of it all, the need to look further.

 

Do you look at Mars in envy, a low red neighbor,

and think that I could be there, waving at you?

 

Man of the moon, do you ever dream,

was there a time life could have thrived around you,

does the thin oxygen pop in your brain

and do you dream of green, and blue, and grey?

 

Man in the moon, I am sailing soon,

on a ship of forged stardust and human hope,

I am sailing soon to reach you,

to breathe as you do, and wave to an earth that waits

for our landing once again.

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