A leaf is lyrical,
Like cursive or ballet.
Ear-shells and eyes
Are doubly pleasured by
The sonic velocity
Of leaves scripting the sky
With the amber crackle
Of ink.
A leaf is lyrical,
Like cursive or ballet.
But I, not so much.
I have not the falling grace.
The tumble of a syllable on my tongue
Ends in a dreadful drop no dipthong could survive—
The jewel shatters, the facets of my meaning
Scattering
Like
Leaves.
I want to write with colors and chlorophyll, not of.
I want my sentence to plie, my vowels and consonants
To come unstuck
Like wings from the bird of a page.
Likes leaves.
Nuts! Pinenut, acorn, and macadamia.
How can I compete?
Trees were signing the universe with leaves
Long before man first sparked fire,
Burned the language of wood.
*I wrote this poem over ten years ago. I still like it even if I didn't write it perfectly!
YOU ARE READING
Prickmedainty Poetry
PoetryFor all those who broke their glass slipper and still search for stars in the shards.
