Who can trace the path of a drift
of breeze through a tree? Or count
the domino leaves pushed one by one
to follow its lead? Which branch
will sway, which spray of leaves
flay the unseen air?
Could I ever count how many leaves
respond to this vapory insistence
or that airy flair? And where
did the ethereal assault begin?
Branches are reaching,
Leaves like petals are waffling,
Now hovering. Now shuddering.
Can you even count the shades of green?
Every flutter makes a different thing.
Every breath complicates the breadth
of movement, the depth of viridian,
of spruce or forest, lime or chartreuse.
How diffuse the kinetics,
how mysterious the phonetics
of a whispering breeze.
first published in Time of Singing
also published in Northern Stars Magazine
©2013 Bonnie Manion