On the first day of a December, when you walk through arbored lanes,
if you stretch out your hands and let the foliage caress your fingers,
pluck a leaf turned red.
When you bemused by the fire and contemplative of its appearance each fall
try to seek what lies at its core, you will be surprised to learn
that the ultimate origin is a firm stalk impregnated in pink.
Sweep the brush of your eyes through the underbelly of this leaf
determined to find its smallest compartment still visible to the vegetable eye,
then let your sight fall on the ridges of your knuckles and see if you can tell the difference.
The fractal lines imprinted on the leaf's palm are, you will know,
no different than the folds of your hand.
If then you make a fist, make it tight, and imagine
what it feels like to be stomata.
When you notice your wrist and feel the vessels through your skin,
check the leaf's pulse, and if you're not too late,
you can see it is as green as it was in the spring.
Study the flesh, take its measure, take its temperature, find it flawless.
Then when the wind turns your glance, feel the mold-ridden, moth-eaten clothes.
If still in time, look back to the tree that birthed this leaf and hear its bark
peeling through like layers of coats on a winter dawn,
like flaking chunks from a leper's thighs.
See if you don't feel the urge to kneel down and lovingly run your fingers
through green buzzed hair with patches of lost color.
But if you keep on walking, you will see those trees whose leaves have already been plucked
and carpet the ground in orange brown.
And when you spot these dark lightning sheaths sprouting from the ground,
piercing each and every cloud,
you will know that beneath the green leaves that watched over summer shades
there are dozens of skinny hands faithfully stretched out towards heaven.