The second man on the Moon called it “magnificent
desolation” when he first stood upon her powdery surface.
I wasn’t even born then but in my spacesuit,
patching solar panels, I find no better words.
We’re the invading aliens in our shells of titanium,
surrounded by grays and shadows darker
than the deepest night of my childhood
on that blue-white orb hanging above the horizon.
While I consider Earth home, I’ve adapted to this gravity.
If I returned, I’d collapse under unfamiliar weight
but the colony’s recycled air is fresher and mined water cleaner
than any found on that polluted tempest we left behind.
We lost Eden for all the profits to be made
from the magnificent desolation that we laid.