Did you ever think the astronauts should have done
a better job describing the Moon for the rest of us?
We spent billions of dollars to send them there,
to walk around on that glassy sand in those
synthetic mukluk boots, driving their goofy, lunar
dune buggies, slapping a golf ball 5386 yards
to an endless sand trap. We heard that static through
corridors of space until they had the chance to describe
exactly, ROGER, what they saw, AFFIRMATIVE,
and instead we heard: "Words canít describe,"
CHECK, "the stark beauty," A-OKAY,
"of the landscape . . . I mean the moonscape."
They were young. Inarticulate. Absolutely
without words to describe what they saw. But then,
when they watched the Earth Rise from the Moonís
fluorescent horizon, I remember, their words were pure
excitement and Oh, my God and Itís so beautiful.
We knew what they meant from our Earth-bound
imaginations. We knew that the rising Earth was
the jewel of our breathing, the swirling of our weather,
a wondrous catís eye marble rolling across black velvet,
reminding us of our daughtersí faces, the freckled
continents, those oceans of blue eyes, the determined set
of our sonís jaw in the angle of a peninsula. And that stillness
around the globe like a lake viewed through the pine woods.
They were speechless because they were reminded of everything
they missed. From their tin-foil shed, on the Sea of Tranquility,
first witnessing, ROGER, the belovedís face out there.
This poem first appeared in Legal Studies Forum.
Used here with the author's permission.