On the remnants of an old driveway leading up out of Rustic Canyon, there is a grouping of agavaceae americana, also known as century plant. The stone dead stalk of the original plant rises up toward the sky, but its leaves descend like a motionless waterfall toward the earth.
Some while ago, the matriarch sent her flower stalk towards the heavens, in one
startling burst of creativity. The effort finished her. Her offspring, however, are thriving. Rigid blue-green leaves, the color of ocean water, push up through the remnants of their dead mother, and grow inexorably toward the sun. They each taper to a dangerous glinting point.
Everything human moves toward decay. The driveway itself, once paved and well-traveled, fights a
losing battle to stay its own, original self. Wild scrubby plants
break through the concrete in places, trees fall across its width, nature encroaches.
The generations of the past fertilize those of the future. In our moment here, is it enough to send our own creativity toward the heavens and, for the briefest of whiles, shelter our babies in our arms?