The Leaf

​The leaf held up to the sun possesses
Veins, a midrib, lamina,
It exchanges gases through the stomata,
Oxygen rises from the parenchyma,

The entire forest is marked by leaves
Heaving a sea of breath that fills
The lungs of toads and seeps into spiracles
And carry the trill of the whippoorwills.

It doesn’t take much, a bitter smell
Of burning branches, the birds still sing,
The leaves are calm, but the air is dull,
And heaven is gone from the evening.

And people roam the trail, they hate
The dark, they smell the bitter air
And hate the hope, they hate the hint
Of morning that the leaves prepare,

If night didn’t come, then day would be
Too bright, so night contains a light
Brighter than the sun, stars and starflowers,
And burning in the eyes of acolytes,

In the morning, the stream will glisten
Between the stalagmites, and outside
Vapors will rise and frogs will lay
Their strings of eggs, and the hawk will glide.