A LEAF FOR TIMOTHY

A LEAF FOR TIMOTHY

I carry home
a leaf for Timothy
from beneath
a tall fig tree,
from below
its canopy,
green spread on blue,
from beneath
its buttress roots
that stretch like giant limbs
into earth.

Smooth, dark-green and veined it is.
I hold it to the winter sun
and see the ever-finer branchings,
intricate beyond my sight.

All life depends upon the light,
warm light that powers the life of leaves,
on weaving nourishment from rain and soil,
and breathing substance of the air.

And thus despite
the wire and the rays,
the concrete and the steel,
our mineral pride,
I know from ancient days,
from some faint utterance that comes
from atavistic and deep time,
from forest aeons of the dream,
that we were born to leaves.

And thus, for little learning eyes,
I hold it up and speak.
And thus, for little learning ears,
I show a word for leaf.