Moon Flowers
Someday soon, all the men who walked on the moon will be dead.
On a summer night, the orange-coloured sphere rises above the southeastern horizon,
Its midnight trajectory guided by the pinpoints of Saturn and Jupiter.
In its full phase, the moon gives up the shapes of craters, mountains
And their footprints cast in stagnant dust.
The scarred sky-bound ball morphs from orange to granular grey.
From 1969 to 1972: ideas, inspiration, accomplishment. Intelligence combines with daring.
Blast-off in a rocket; separate: command module orbits,
Lunar module lands. Men walk, hop, collect rocks.
Re-launch and join-up; as a fireball, they return to earth.
They take pictures of the azure ball; it’s how we see our planet, now.
Remember this disappearing apostle-like group: Neil Armstrong, leaping for mankind,
followed by his crew mate Buzz. Collins circling, hoping.
The others. 12 American white men stepped down.
Trained military stars waned in their after-moon lives.
Pinnacles of their careers over before they were 40 years old.
Ticker tape parades, White House visits, Time Magazine Cover Shots, Corvettes.
Decades of autograph seekers, speaking engagements, charity events.
Divorces, depression, alcoholism and despair,
The ordinariness of daily life on earth.
Moon bound heroes earthbound. Nine Now Underground.
Four years of lunar landings are a blip in the history of our planet.
The magnificence of the project is like the blooming of a flower,
Great effort growing from seed to stalk to leaves to buds, then
Hueless moon flowers, their fragrance on the wind.
Someday soon, all the men who walked on the moon will be dead.
Susanne Spence Wilkins
July, 2020
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