By this time in my life,

I had hoped we would be discussing

what flowers will grow best 

on the red plains of our next-door neighbor.

Cities would float in the upper atmosphere,

collections of platforms from which

a thousand vehicles could take us anywhere

between the stars.

Now I worry 

we instead seek ships

to take us nowhere 

as quickly as inhumanly possible.

We squabble these days 

over blaming others for algae,

when we once dreamed of shooting that scum 

across space to make room

for rootbound residents of earth.

We slash each other 

instead of hacking the obstacles

that keep our futures from growing.

No black and blue buds

poke through early spring dust storms

that deposit dirt so rich 

it might as well be lethal. 

No space stations await us

over the next horizon.

When given the choice—

and even when not awarded so—

I remember the blooms 

I hope to see images of

across the fields of Mars

when I think of how low

our species has sunk.