Practicing

After the late night shower,

by morning these leaves look exhausted 

but content in their graves,

shiny too with clear pools 

in their centers no bigger 

than tears. 

Whatever yesterday laid flat 

and bruised in aridness 

now gains a second wind 

in the rain, a final taste, a gasp 

that returns blood to their veins, 

makes their brown spots shine

as small wide eyes.

I like this large maple leaf 

in the center of mud 

and not far away two thin eucalyptus leaves 

whose edges were nibbled on last night,

seem now recovered, stretched out 

on a neighbor's back, a small seed 

hanging like a bell from its spine. 

I mistake a red leaf for a feather 

and place it on the belly of a fallen 

chunk of bark, 

dark as espresso, 

arrange them all to my liking 

and remove my camera from a pocket. 

Part of me is always watching,

practicing their dying

Though I still feel 

far away from my undoing.

Yet for a moment here,

it seems not so bad a thing 

to one day lay down flat 

on the great heart of  this earth.