Midday—
a clear day,
almost warm for winter.
Under an oak's shade
an agave is rooted.
Pale green in the sun,
dark green in the shade—
yellow stripes, thorns
along each blade.
Tall as I am,
surrounded by dry grass
and untended trees,
an empty park,
the silence of early afternoon.
I approach carelessly—
the thorns cut me.
This neglected park
where everything seems to wither,
but the agave remains.
Blades marked by years,
roots deeper
than the dry grass around it—
as ancient as the oak
that gives it shade.
