That one photo of a bootprint.

The journey of 240,000 miles
Ended in that one small step.

The camera that snapped it, 
Carving that slice out of time,
Remains there; its film extracted,
It was tossed into the dust
Where stars and sun glint
On its upturned lens that
Still faithfully bends the light.

Stripped of extra weight,
It imparts its own gravitas
On the gray rough regolith.
Inverted images play
Of the sky and the days that pass,
And perhaps once in a while,
The ghost of that remote orb,
Blue and white, from whence it all came.