Am I really a leaf
turning out from the trunk of a tree?
Is the weight of the earth what’s steadying me?
in this space, on these limbs
between core and cloud
the simultaneous root and reach of me.
The yellow of brittle and break
at the jagged edge of me.
The edge of the patterned and planned
cut like a cookie by some wise hand.
I am held
in the eye of One who veins
the hazel of eyes and the green
of leaves. Yes, the One who sees,
and I want to fall.
I am in a time of trouble.
I consider the poor.
Will the Lord deliver me?
What will my deliverance look like?
From where will it come?
Trees. Gardens. Leaves
The silence of Adam,
When wrong is wrong,
he must learn his voice.