Member Poem

Tardigrade on the Moon—
will you perish soon?
Parked in her immense
left eye, you have the sense

(since there is neither air
nor moss nor water there)
to curl into a ball,
dry out and, thus, forestall

the death that would ensue
for anyone but you.
A wizard at survival
you’ve not a single rival,

for when an asteroid
dives headlong from the void
and pummels us, you’ll chuckle
as we collapse and buckle.

For half a billion years
through sea-changed biospheres,
you’ve been here. There’s no doubt
your mastery stands out,

your expertise at cheating
the Reaper as you’re heating
to feverish degrees
or cooling down to freeze

(without so much as sneezing,
shivering, or wheezing)
to paralyzing zero.
And so, my tiny hero,

when we again alight
upon the Moon some night,
be kind and do not chortle
at souls so frail and mortal!