Trample, though not unwelcomely, its voluminous carpets;
A bed: freshly and morning-made to lovingly crush
The ground becomes the natural molcajete to the foot
And the new-released fragrance rises around your body
It has never been pitched into stormy bays
It has simply waited; been and seen
For years long before its tempestuous, colonial cousin
And its incense of inflorescence shall wait still,
For the feet of those who, perhaps curious, tread well after.