Every elliptical orbit that binds sons
to fathers moves with the eccentrics
of time reckoning. Father Saturn
says you’re moving out—
his favorite moon doesn’t seem
to need his papa’s ringlets anymore.
So far you’re the only body
besides Earth with surfaces
that sire rivers, lakes, deep seas.
Cue your Titan brethren who launched
the ancient craft of stealing fire,
the vault of heavens pressing
down on rebellious shoulders.
You’re big enough to bully
Mercury, and now you’re pulling
away from home four inches a year.
Some say with wings strapped
to our arms we could fly
your cloud-filled skies
with no more effort than walking.
We aim our backyard telescopes
for haiku snapshots of you.
Dragonfly will visit—
the NASA drone calibrated
to probe your impact crater
slammed ten millennia ago,
to measure your frigid ways.
Free-range scientists yearn
to tilt impossible spheres
and find another place
where ingredients
for life may live.
But you are an old god,
a distant machine
stubborn and likely
to keep
your secrets
close.
