#352 - Agave 1:17PM

On my desk sits an agave plant. Leaves curl out from a central stalk. They curve inward and downward and outward, but never upward for very long. From the side, it looks like the leaves are holding the plant up somehow.

The old leaves form a nest below the living leaves. They're brown, crusty. Curiosity strikes; I touch an old leaf. It's rigid on my finger, dry and firm. I can tell this leaf will snap if I bend it, but I decide not to break it. It's better to let things run their course, allowing them to disintegrate on their own.

Above them are the living leaves. Living, alive, not quite vibrant though: stoic. Greens and browns and whites cover the leaves. Dark green and light green alternate, forming a pattern I want to understand as a recognizable shape, but remain elusive. They curl inward onto themselves, forming a funnel or a cone. The edges are rimmed with sharp teeth as if protecting precious contents. But there's nothing to protect. Empty cornucopias.

The leaves are like a pipe: a smooth tube at one end opening to wide bowl at the other. My friend [...] had a green pipe. It was a glass pipe swirled with yellow. He was shorter than me, with a shaved head and a wicked smile. We'd smoke out of that pipe and go to punk rock shows, then we'd come back to my place. Some of that time is so bright in my mind, and some just faded remnants.

Rarely, this plant flowers. If I move the plant, some unknown biological clock resets, and the flowering cycle starts again. But if I leave it alone at the window, the mood creeps into it, suddenly and sharply. A great spike juts up into the air, perhaps a foot tall. It's a lime green colored mast, smoother and more supple than the rest of the plant. An eruption of flowers shoots out from the top of the mast. The flowers are orange and pink, festive colors appropriate for the fleeting event.