Andrew's Avocado Plant
I've been sitting here for an hour
gazing at Andrew's avocado plant,
which looks out the back window
at the green trees in the garden,
elder brothers and sisters
allowed out to play
though evening is coming on.
I remember the act of eating that avocado -
peeling away the rough skin
to reach tender flesh
golden and green;
how soft in my mouth
like love words being born.
Then my skeptic son,
the young magician,
practiced at sleight of hand
and illusion,
spoke for the seed,
large and hard as stone,
impenetrable.
He rooted it in a glass of real water,
planted it in an earthenware pot.
From a crack in that stone,
from within,
came a slender stem,
I believe it.
And now it stands tall and brave and green
with leaves
fluttering in the evening breeze
like wings,
catching the remnants of light
struggling down through the trees
between tall buildings;
waving out the window
to the trees in the garden
as the sun goes down.
