Steady

For the most part, it is steady. But

January was wet and under forty degrees. The fortunate

Were beating themselves up for their failed resolutions. They

were beating themselves up because the rain and the cold carried misery.

They’d given up.

Those who don’t give up are real Mexicanos. They are

Undocumented jardineros who need to trim rosales before the

magic Valley begins to birth anything in its soil

They are faithful vendederos from the Pulga who stay in their cars because the market is empty.

Those who don’t give up is an old, white bearded negrito

                Who sits on an upside-down empty-five gallon-chapapote can in his shed.

Preaching to puddles that gurgle soda cans,

Preaching about an enslaved life he doesn’t wish to forget

because it will make the one to come much sweeter.

The trees and the grass here never lose color.