A Mutant Raised on a Farming Planet

Manual labor breaks glass bones,
But you loved the smell of the world
Of tools, of wood and leather, dirt
And old machinery in barns.

Frail frame in a bar of sunlight,
You could hide out like that for hours,
Inhaling those musty hay bales
You couldn’t pitch, reading your books,

Science fiction, mostly, spaceships,
Gleaming equipment and weapons,
Summers at your grandmother’s farm,
Fantasy free of irony

As the warp speeds and hyperdrives
Easily slipped the speed of light.