A poet sees the flower as a sign
Of transience, and beauty that will fade.
But to a plant, a blossom’s fair design
Ensures its pollinators will be staid.
And pollinators, heedless of the part
They play in reproduction, blindly seek
To take their tithe of sweetness and depart;
No poetry the process would bespeak,
Unless one thinks of honey, and the bees
Who perishable nectar do devour,
And metamorphose it with seeming ease
To that which never spoils- whence came this power
To change mortality to perpetuity?
An evolutionary superfluity?