The leaf tells little of the tree,
when it is brown and turned to mulch.
One fallen leaf in autumn,
in a forest far, unseen:
At such a tiny moment,
even God must grow quite bored
by his creation. He blinks
and a thousand leaves whirl in the breeze.
A tree grows deep inside me,
from the apple pips I swallowed during lunch.
Such tales are humdrum
amongst children. The green
of verdigris stains a monument
to the folly of the age of swords.
No matter what the poet thinks,
these words are less than the susurrus of trees.
