Prayer for the Leaves

The easterly shivers.
The green fingers of the limbs gesture to me.
Each atomic one, spinning self-reference

is a Green Man, Adam, Eve
observed through the window last Sunday,
open for the swamp cooler cross-breeze.

I would drink the cosmos, photosynthesize,
drown my endless arrays of capillaries,
and bow to the stream-of-petiole, the sacred Brow.

Be still and know
the old, ant-ridden ridge
of windy arrowheads.

We search for the Sight-Giver
who already downward comes
to shiver each applauding, prostrate ghost.

Laughter alights on a crowded hall.
Toss us about like a flower girl. We
hold our hands out to receive.