I was once a leaf

a brief pause for poetry

I was once a leaf, I think.
Staring out the window watching the fluttering plum tree
Thinking about the Scarlet Runner Beans that used to climb towards it,
Cut down without our permission.

I was once a leaf, I think.
A fern, specifically.
All spiked edges and soft breezes,
Thousands of secret spores beneath what you can see,
Each frond formed from a fiddlehead
Once upon a time.

I was once a leaf, I think.
And I would like to be one still.
Soaking up the sun like I’m made of chlorophyll -
Photosynthesizing my own energy and drinking water through my toes.

A leaf doesn’t need to care about a war on the other side of the world,
But I do.
And I was once a leaf, I think.
But now I am made of blood and bone.

I am no longer a series of cells that can create breath from poison.
Or energy from light.
I am disappointingly human, all feeling and flesh.
It is no mystery whether the whispers affect my wellbeing.

Speaking love to a leaf, I might see it move minutely,
Tiny twitches only captured by time-lapse, 
Turning into something tangible and wild.

Speaking pain to a person, the impact is instantaneous.
Words inflict a deep horror that cannot be denied.
It makes me long to disappear, 
feet and hands and heart
buried into the Earth so that I might soak up whatever magic is left among the worms.

There is so much more to do, 
there is so much hope to find.
If I can find it in a leaf, 
If I can find it in a tree that has stood for three thousand years
Perhaps I can find it in myself, too.

And perhaps I can unfurl myself, like the fiddlehead that bore my soul
And perhaps I can photosynthesize this aching into action.

I think I was a leaf, once.
And sometimes, I think I might yet become one again.