RATING: G
SUMMARY: Aeryn's musings on the Terrace.
SPOILERS: None
DISCLAIMER: I only *wish* I were one of the creators of "Farscape"! It is not so, and so all reverence and obeisance to Jim Henson Company, Hallmark Entertainment, Channel Nine Australia, SciFi Channel, and any one else in this illustrious company I may have forgotten.
ARCHIVING: Yes, but please be sure to keep my name and copyright information attached, thanks. Also, please tell me if you're archiving it and let me know where I can see my baby all dressed up in her Sunday best.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: This poem is dedicated to Dani, Queen of Farscape Poets!

Since first I came to this strange ship, this living ship,
the Terrace has been my refuge.
One I often shared with him.
With Crichton.
I do not know what he got from being here.
He told me once that a terrace should have trees, and flowers
rising in tiered banks to a sky filled with sweet song
and the winds' gentle soughing.
There are no winds here, nor birds to sing, nor flowers or trees.
There is only the sharp, cutting brightness of the stars,
the stars among which we move like wraiths,
never staying on one world long enough to see a full cycle
of seasons, to meet a friend, to make a difference.
I am ship-born, ship-bred.
My life has been spent among the shards of distant suns.

So why is it, now that he is gone, I come to the Terrace
and see not the knifepoint brightness of the stars I have known,
nor the emptiness of the spaces through which we slip
anonymously,
but flowers in a tiered bank rising to a blue sky
filled with sweet song?

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