When he shook
the once-sand bottle
what was left made the sound
of a maple leaf growing
It is not possible, he thought,
and it would not be appropriate
for me to shake hands
with a leaf’s three jagged hands
Who needs leaves anyway?
Nothing but the fruited conspiracy
of seed and soil repetitive, hogwash
But the aging leaf in the bottle
interrupted him saying,
Leaves run their veins in all directions
hoping to report most sun
They are green when they need to be,
and red in their rest allegiant to none
but the season
When he finished drinking the leaf
he searched for a sunrise, any sunrise,
his head tilted back,
in sun-loving obeisance
The Writing of John B. Randall 