I’ve become a leaf poet,
reading the veins
like a story out of order,
knowing substance
is often found
in the margins.

He sat and watched the storm

across the water,

not detached exactly

but distracted by the thought

of how she looked like the wind felt

as it gathered pieces of nests and paper

pressing them into obscene shapes

and tossing them back to the world

like a cosmic inside joke.

He saw a bird trying to fly

in the face of the turbulent wind

and his heart sped up slightly,

reliving the moments when they had been

one in the quiet calm amid the storm.

In a surprising twist,

the sun pressed leaf patterns

onto my skin, so that the trees

would recognize a sister

of inferior design

bringing me into a world

where measurement is a myth,

awakening in me a freedom

of season and element.

So it is with a turn of mind and heart

far from worry and shame

I find a home in a valley of delight.