We who love veins of leaves trace their rivers
of water and minerals surging through
xylem from roots far below. We quiver
at their vital streams producing air, flues
flowing life to our lungs. The bramble leaf,
pinstripe emerald cloth to naked eye,
hosts factories to nurture earth, relief
for every being who breathes. That is why,
I suppose, when you touch coriander
to your cheek, your iris transforms to jade,
like the Hellespont beloved Leander
would swim each night, where only gods may bathe.
Offending them, storms swept him to his death.
Unlike him, we honor our straits of breath.
Roger Armbrust
February 23,
2013
