Experimental, they said, and only
three years. Thrust out past Mars,
and fuel enough to return.
Ephemeral, they said, thin as gossamer,
our best scientists will make nanosheets
strong enough to catch the solar wind.
Exigencies, they said, are prepared for,
satellites in transit of Mars,
and lasers for errant asteroids.
So tell me why the course corrections have
burnt my fuel into so many ashes. And why
has the strong wind blown me astray,
sailing the star-torn night to Jupiter,
and old Saturn's wedding rings?
Unanticipated, they said, in five years
calculations will be done to
bring you home.
Well, I've made:
alterations, stitches in the gossamer, and
three years later, the winds are still strong.
Next stop, the edge of the world, my heliopause.
Next stop, Alpha Centauri or Proxima,
and long nights of wine-drenched sails.