The leaf folding into the wind
is a lush flame waving from the distance.
Its tongue of murmuring sunsets
intones the unreadable enigmas of a life
resting in its primes.
As ensign of the breeze it shakes its pennants
in the mist of days,
in the glare of nights,
and it lies down on the shivering skin of water
when its mysteries quieten down.
Let it dwell in the greenery
of its dreams, in the freshness of its blazes.
Its open palm draws the boundaries of a cosmos
vaster than the breath of the universe,
the routes of a time as depth as a mirror.
On its filaments lie written
the runes of a majestic and unpronounceable fate,
on its wide horizons the ceaseless
swaying of what moves and frolic
clears paths and gathers.
The seconds swing, fanning into the crease
of its vegetable robes, as a spell.
On the cloven torso of its wings
the pearls of the dawn seed the humid doze
of its lively cleanliness.
Let it fluttering its fertile flag
at birth of shadows, at dying of dawn,
as one who celebrates,
as one who convenes,
as one who awaits.
