by Rose Postma
The leaves, which are not leaves, are silverfish,
which are not fish at all but wingless insects:
translucent as uterine vellum, antennae always
craving flight, exodus. Some sloughed by wind
as finger nail clippings or dried skin cells
to the floor, destined for the garbage can.
The remnant is clinging to the gray-bark trunk,
to the branches and the peach tree suckers
growing below the grafting line, not clinging,
grasping. Held, bound, always feeling
the cambium layer’s pulse of sap between
scion and stalk. Ready to be redeemed.