We assume they will,
but one day they may never come back . . .
Spring, springs ― they wither and dry
out of our control, then: miracle. Nothing
in our social engines emulates this growth magic
Ask yourself till you’re blue in the face ―
sky-blue in the face, even:
Who, who will they put in charge
of the science of robot-blossoms?
Is this how we wish to be remembered:
the first women and men
to dismiss utterly the scented luxury of a solid carpet
of flowers . . . ?