The ground does not yield as I make my way
unsteady across the dirt mounds and bone-dry grasses
in the brittle frost of the early deep freeze.
It’s almost as cold as Mars at the equator, I find myself thinking.
I dream
of butterscotch evenings, and landscapes tanned
red and brown and meandering canals
clear straight to the bottom.
This is Bradbury’s Mars.
I close my eyes and stroll among the ancient ruins
until the cold drives me back into the chaos again.
The last rocket for Mars left a long time ago
and I am stuck on Earth to freeze.