Come you dry March
leaf, alone
of all these bare
winter branches
on this tall, familiar
tree. Come!
Give me some knowledge
of last
Spring when you and
all these
brown, decaying brethren now
scattered around
and under my body,
laying here,
when you were all
moist green–
alive–filled with sunlight.
Come, sing
a song of memories,
and maybe
plant in this air
some history
of being a leaf,
that these
expectant nubs may breathe
such meaning
when they burst open
at last
breaking free for April!
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