I, a small red body
floating here
where your astronauts
dare not venture,
send greetings to you
there on your hilltop,
telescopes trained
toward me, you
who are manufactured
from dust and minerals
that eons past drifted
free from me
and my sister planets.
You who are figments
of my imagination,
chimera I dream
as I spin
through the universe,
while your eyes
search for light.
By Connie Green
Connie Jordan Green lives on a small farm in East Tennessee where she writes in an attic study and gardens alongside two cats and a dog. She is the author of two award-winning novels for young people, The War at Home and Emmy; two poetry chapbooks, Slow Children Playing and Regret Comes to Tea; and two poetry collections, Household Inventory, winner of the Brick Road Poetry Award, 2013, and most recently Darwin’s Breath from Iris Press. Since 1978 she has written a column for The Loudon County News Herald. She frequently leads writing workshops. For more information, please visit conniejordangreen.com.