Poetry, Part Twenty-eight

As the years passed, the assignment at Minot became a grind, especially when friends and acquaintances left for other assignments or left the Air Force entirely.

And, in my third year there, I also had to think about my next assignment, my Permanent Change of Station (PCS) move. It would, of course, be the Academy; but I certainly had no idea what awaited me there.

PCS

I take from Saturn when I see her closer
the gravity we know
and wonder why she yields to our darkness
her reflection.
To never be one of earth's own,
I would claim another planet,
barren as we sense them
so as not to be some court recorder
whose minute of recollection is lost
amid trials seemingly more abundant
than miles a light year detects.

And then I could say I just landed to scan all of this.

I am unable to order my cells forth.
And when other men at last leave this earth,
my body will have reached a limit long before.
Yet in the show of our star near dying,
the fiber once us may fire off
and never be asking from which weakened world
each found release.

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