My avocado is real,
My avocado is a metaphor.
My avocado defies all odds,
Grows in a glass of plain tap water,
Not in a ‘proper’ orchard.
Yet it grows,
My avocado reaches towards the light,
As if it’s devoid of care,
As if the light will liberate it from the constrains of the teeny tiny glass of water on a windowsill.
Oblivious of how other well tended, privileged avocados fair,
It doesn’t compare,
Because in this conditions now and here,
It knows its destination,
To reach for the light,
Whether one day it becomes a tree is neither here nor there,
If it dies a sapling,
It did leave a legacy,
Of reaching for the light,
Despite constraining unfavorable unbecoming conditions.