Leaf Out

It’s April fifth, nine-thirty am — fog
tongues my forearms — gifts me with
small bits of silent weather, as I run
downhill on Milledge Circle

Every March, spring slaps me across
the cheeks, and says breathe, as I crawl
my way out of the broken egg shell
of winter.

Like my brothers-in-law, the fog speaks
in alternating voices of coldness
and warmth, and I realize it’s been
months since they asked me anything
about myself.

Running downhill, through muted
air, I hear each new leaf snap
open — gasping, red oak, chalk
maple, sweetgum — as they finger-paint
the breeze with newborn greens —
mint and lime.

Today holds all the promise
of a just opened sapphire iris,
as I cross the street, reverse
course, and begin running back
uphill.

Gary D. Grossman
Salvation South, March 24, 2024