Hierophany

When he shook
the once-sand bottle

what was left made the sound
of a maple leaf growing

It is not possible, he thought,
and it would not be appropriate
for me to shake hands
with a leaf’s three jagged hands

Who needs leaves anyway?
Nothing but the fruited conspiracy
of seed and soil    repetitive, hogwash

But the aging leaf in the bottle
interrupted him saying,

Leaves run their veins in all directions
hoping to report “most sun”

They are green when they need to be,
and red in their rest        allegiant to none
but the season

When he finished drinking the leaf
he searched for a sunrise, any sunrise,
his head tilted back,
in sun-loving obeisance

This entry posted by J Rand : 05:00