An avocado ripens on the window sill Beside a white cyclamen in a clay pot. She picks up the soft dark fruit. The bruised shell tears As she presses the skin. Knife in hand, she cuts The avocado to the pit, Peels away the dry skin. She pares off a thin slice, Slides it into her mouth, Mashes it with her tongue Against her teeth. The slippery fruit in her palm, She cuts into the middle And around the seed; Ponders, not its moist outer layer, Not its thin surface, but the core: Centeredness is an ideal. Hands and seed rinsed, Seed poked into the pot, she holds Her dripping fingers above a blossom And wonders when the seed will sprout again. The ideal, like the wet flower, glistens.