Inspired by Justice Ameer
The trees swing in the breath of a breeze, back and forth, then a little farther forth again.
The leaves are filled with
their chlorophyll and are almost at the greenest point
of the season,
holding on to the support
of a bony arm in the oak.
Their shape has faded,
and travels just as one:
A green Jackson Pollock painting-- expressionism-- layered on
cardinal azure.
The gust halts, and the leaves begin to become their own works -one leaf constructed by Leng Jun, one by Van Gogh, one Michelangelo and another Picasso. Picasso’s proves peculiar, composed of worn carmine and burgundy,
all the others olive.
In a moment, the sky takes
a deep breath and blows onto the earth, like you whistled at that dead daffodil last spring. The sky remains pale,
the foliage,
again, a splatter of paint.
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