~
In the mist of late night solitude,
from a mislaid plateau,
with a suitcase full of sparks
She observes constellations
reflected as little needy eyes,
peering down at her
They could be midnight directives,
postcards from distant nebula
suspended in gaffa
"Ne t'enfuis pas..." She exhales
Still she wonders:
will her children grow to love
their perfect machines more
than they love
their imperfect mother?
~