On my version of Mars,
the sky is black velvet,
stitched with tiny white stars
that blink like they know my name.

I am painting it
on a small triangular rock,
fingers steady
as I trace the dark.

The ground is rust‑red and quiet,
a soft triangle of planet
under my feet,
and at the edge of the darkness
a silver tree
grows out of stone.

Its branches shine
like metal bones,
each leaf a small reflected star,
catching light from nowhere
and giving it back anyway.

Near the roots,
a blue pond waits,
a single bright drop of color
on all that red,
holding tiny glowing fish
that move like slow sparks.

The air feels like
cold metal and dust,
but the silence is kind,
and as I walk this little Mars
I feel like I finally found a place

where trees can be silver,
water can glow,
and a whole planet
can fit in the palm of my hand.

Sara