Proxima Centauri Poem by Hannington Mumo

Most contiguous of all high-hanging orbs:
The closest neighbor to mundane mortal plane,
Could you make a latent mother to Nature's offspring;
A light-year safer refuge should earth's ires turn insane?

But how should breath your touch even slightly sample
Even if you be all magically livable and kissing supple,
Since our very own fastest emissaries be way leisurelier
Than real sense would ever travel from border to border?

Man's most trustworthy messengers: light and sound,
Do make exceedingly tardy takers of signals there.
And each as a possible envoi has too slow been found,
Although the former does present a leaner bill of fare.

Nine years and more would be the fairest deal
Any justly loyal envoy may bring down here.
And with critical fortunes thus slowed still
Men would find it yet hard to exchange turns.

Plus, an entire eighty years of constant turning lots
Renders you such a tedious switcher of starry spots.