row and glide,
but do not hide,
for millions lie hidden
in cold pockets,
who will warm by reflection
of we who see,
grasping the secret power
of the present.

- peek around the corner
from the quiet shores of
sentimental memories.

- come out and be defenseless.

let’s go back a
hundred-thousand years

to these ragged edges
torn rains
raw greens
biting seas

to the first sunrise,
now understood.
tears of calm joy –

a return.

we find ourselves
in this,
a kinship;
our brother is
our keeper,
and we
its’ guardian,
walk the edges
and the smooths;
our planet,
Earth’s children

high lights and gleaming cords,
roads and paths,
don’t lead them anywhere.
but you will someday take them all,
take them all at once –
someday,
but not today.

Chicago’s pall, leave behind.
Evanston’s smog,
still, a hope.  Lone telescope –

through the fog,   Faint light find,
Andromeda’s call.

Silver, cool, harsh rock-smooth as rolled steel on the horizon defies the cold blue-violet sky of Mars as the pinpoint dots of distant white suns circle in wonder of the scene.

Green mist hanging from the verdant leaves of the thick mountain forest permeates the humid cool air of a rain of a few minutes past above the soggy moss, gray-green rock, deep red brown trail, columned by mighty yet yielding deep-colored trunks.

Glistening snow reflects on each crystal the apparition of a cold white moon, blinding in glorious circles the eye which beholds the perimeter of sentinel black-green poines, opening the snow-hidden field to that which it mirrors.

Deep sea-salty blue-green transparency softens the pink bottom to a wavy yellow-pink-yellow-pink-banded black-white-black skittering across the deep pink-yellow-pink green blades waving in time to the yellow-pink-yellow deep sea, never leave.

On this day Cernan lands from his Gemini IX flight with Stafford conducting a two-hour space walk in that void.

Days above morning, flying leaves leaving
     Out crimson’s crisp echo before the sharp blast.
Out crimson’s crisp echo
    I flying leaves leavings, watch days above morning
will sharp winds ride?
In this calm serene
      half-a-world away         unseen
high and high gasping the highest col raking
in final pierced rays of a cold sun’s begone
on grays of fierce snow crystal
crystal quiet alone
caused shattered collapses of ice-tons descending
is there a noise if no one can hear?