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No soy rosa,
ni lirio.
Soy bromelia,

Do not mistaken me for a rose,
I am no rose,
nor amethyst hued iris in spring bloom.
I am a hearty bromeliad,
entrenched in the cleavage
of exposed granite,
growing forcefully out
from
within deep pockets of serpentine
and obsidian.
I am found,
brightly thriving in arid
unforgiving terrain,
an unexpected
declaration of life.
I am here,
waiting,
in unchanging form,
etched,
into
sacred sites of our ancestors.
My colors,
a reminder of your own sacredness.
Dear one,
if you are thirsty,
my body of spear tipped arms
holds water and would never close
its chambers to your need.
I grow,
nurture rock into soil.
I breathe,
oxygen into thin atmospheres.
Life follows my toil,
yet your watchful eye will never see me move.
I am here,
fighting off the cold, arid wind,
collecting dew and mist
as condensation clings to my wrists.
Flower, still.

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