You taught us the meaning of humanity
out on the Sea, where the Earth
falls away and leaves us with nothing
save the mud of our struggle
visions of utopia left behind
when mad men came ashore
looking for Heaven.
When I hold my Left Hand to Darkness,
no one asks if I still suffer
what those men work in the shadows;
instead they take my hand and show
a map to the stars holds hope
that we are more than what we are
and not everything can be bought.
Perhaps we will never break the echo
the clatter of coins leave on the Farthest Shore
but the journey will chip at our bad habits
and remind us that happiness is to live
to a ripe old age where pain
is a memory of the Dispossessed
before we rejected the banality of evil hopes.
The revolution drifts in orbit now
asking for trouble where only spirits and fire
can touch its priceless permanence, as with
love—neither sits, waiting
for someone to give it meaning
they get out there and remake
the universe on their own terms.
(For Ursula: 1929-2018, but whose mark upon speculative fiction, the world, and my own literary motivations, is eternal. Your journey was truly worth it.)