no renoir

they went to mars,
not anyone, but a robotic
machine with which
to traverse the hot
red soil so far away.
seven months in space
and then a soft, gentle
landing. things beeped
and took pictures.
wheels moved, and
gears set free, unwound.
it scooped up samples.
nothing. dirt. rocks.
sand, gravel, no air
to speak of, no renoir
either, or van gogh.
no sound, no brahms
playing, no choirs
singing. nothing.
no angular lines
like frank lloyd wright
might do, or
pyramids, or castles.
not a single book turned
to page one. these
were the best of times.
nothing. why
didn't they know.
but now they do.