This Northern Red Oak leaf covers my left
palm and fingers, its pigment fading from
forest-green to yellow-green, a bereft
chameleon caught in the act. Right palm comes
beside it as if taking communion
from nature, and I study plant veins and
my veins, its stalk turning to lifeline on
through to leaf’s tip, while my rough-edged, stretched hand’s
line arcs from near wrist to base of index
finger and beyond. Love, do you believe
this curved furrow within our aging, flexed
flesh determines our days? Like withered leaves
we fade as the hand curls closed? Do we share
life beyond us, as loving leaves bear air?
Roger Armbrust
September 22, 2008
