From the Fishouse

Leaf,
you no longer know
what it means

to be a leaf under a stone.

You’ve got too used
to the cold slab weight of it.

Absence of light
has turned you
into a wafer of veins

a leafshadow.

One skipping day
a child will come
and kick away the stone.

For a moment
you will lie there,
afraid of your own lightness

afraid of what you’ve become,

dazed
by the suddenness
of a white winter sun.