Steven Schroeder | in early March
Between the last leaf bleached by time and sun
on the longest finger of the raised hand
of a tree planted years ago in a stand
to fill the void left by a generation
lost to plague and the great mass of them
turning to earth below, the whole of nature
waits for the only act that matters,
falling out of place in a time someone
is bound to find inconvenient.
This last leaf is a being capable
of action for no reason other than
the social space between the tree’s finger
and the ground beneath its feet, where, in time,
a flower out of place will rise with no idea of distance.
Chicago
11 March 2020
from sheltering in place | 2020
