Of course it exists. Let it be grasses, hollow
identical plumes that rise
structural, bowing, the color of manna,
a whole level pampas

light-sown. Each parallel nerve
embraces its own shade.
Each from node to tip breathes
out at night, ease. Winters,
when dense air holds smoke & no

branches move, other gardens
go bare: petioles crumple, racemes fall.
This one stays unmoved.

It does not harbor views. Its foul weed
is pity. It refuses
duality. Frost
is a sword to it. Burned, it springs back.