Even now I search among its scattered bones
for life; if not its own, the birth
of something new, creatures teeming
in its carcass, some kind of decomposition
devoid of moisture, wondering if dust
can feed anything. Still, the saguaro
inspires awe, standing on its peak
preserved, beautiful in a different way,
still creating, giving birth to outlines,
shadows, questions, ideas, and this poem.
Now that I’m long past the days of childbearing, the saguaro has become, for me, the symbol of productive old age and the birth of the intangible.