Just Leaves
no, these aren’t little green tongues of flame
not lizard tails
or the magical feathers of a quetzal bird
just leaves
new leaves
spring leaves
unfurling to eat—no,
not the sun’s liquid honey—
just the light itself
these leaves nothing but what they are
stipule, petiole, base, midrib, margin, tip—
small not-miracles of ongoingness
and no, they’re not braiding sunlight into a rope ladder
for a winter escape
this isn’t a fairytale
no witch no magic no little flame of green we lean
towards like salvation, a candle in the dark
not a lost gospel we’ve dreamed of
scrolled tight
in the bud’s smallest cave
this is textbook:
xylem, phloem, vein, stoma
chloroplast, chlorophyll, thykaloid, lumen
not saint’s marrow
not the Word made flesh
green lips saying bless bless
just cell next to cell
not the branch’s bunting
spun or sewn with light
DAYNA PATTERSON is the author of O Lady, Speak Again (Signature Books, 2023) and If Mother Braids a Waterfall (Signature Books, 2020). Read more.