Summers, I drive past
regimented rows of patented plants
weedless and well-watered
behind signs saying where
seed DNA was spun,
like gold from straw was once,
magic from a mundane wheel;
but centrifuged stiltskin-like
and greedy for progeny.
There’s no stopping the spread.
Wind is innocent and bees
follow instinct as directionless.
Pollen is promiscuous and doesn’t care
who owns its code in the scatter
towards seasonal immortality,
the only way plants can know it.