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.

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