Alcibiades 7

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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