rise sculptures in rust:
austere pillars,
ochre postpile columns of basalt,
impossible carved arches, brick-red
and stark, cliffs
the exact shade of sequoia bark
and eighty times as tall.
Their shadows
fall dark and forbidding
across a landscape rock-littered
like a grim battlefield,
soaked for centuries
in dried blood.
Kneeling, I touch
the copper-colored dust,
sifting it between my fingers.
It feels soft and fine,
like cinnamon.
Innocent enough
until the air stirs
suddenly, and I watch,
helpless and lost
as the wind whirls the dust up
all around me in the first
furious swirls
of a Martian sirocco,
higher and faster, obscuring
ground and rocks and sun
until nothing
exists
anywhere
except myself
and the color orange.
Between storms
the stillness hangs
heavily,
like waiting.
Sometimes I find myself
holding my breath
in sympathy.
email karawynn@sff.net
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background adapted from Mars Pathfinder mission photos, 1997
11613 people have experienced the Martian surface since July 7, 1997.
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