A Green Leaf
October 27, 1999

I am only a bud on a stem conjoined to a branch
that's webbed along with larger limbs, their flesh
is embedded bark, that's splayed into accusatory
fingers pointing in many directions on top, while
the rest of my hidden family is compressed within
a trunk.

I, while in my infancy, played a part with nature's
infantry and spawned accordingly as my birth
would allow. Out of the seed, I was instantly
seduced by an unhoused hue, chartreuse, that read
me as a chameleon for more than sun and moon
hours. Nothing dire. I waited to appear wiser.

At this stage, my brand seems farouche, but I
appeal to the flyers and crawlers who've never
seen or heard me borrow the truth that my
form is enduring, pictured mildly to produce
fully and perform as I should, though briefly
stagnant, this is assured.

When mother's temperature caps us with a
brimming Celsius, then my merit from the
world will prove what yellow and blue
intimately conquers to do for all who will
not only observe me because other kin that
will flourish to accompany a tree.

I could be picked or preened errantly, or be
dulled by the element of overexposure.
The wind can be a friend and blow my
team of bouquets of confetti, and the rain
can drench my residence and sooth the
recapture of my boldness.

My time isn't finite for memory. I extend a
courtesy to any artist who adopts my nature
as a subject, and allow me and my family to
roam in the valley of a psyche, then pour onto
wishes that soon becomes visually and idly
nutritious. When done, find me.

Like a good party, it dashes. My meaning is the
air when it's the early days of its gelid crassness.
An appointment with my final tranformation
and release is sound. To hover and land. I
become them. When it hits, I am the crunchy,
crumbling foliage browned when autumn downs.

© 1999 Jarrod C. Lacy