WildWords – Trembling Leaves

It begins in obscurity,
in the graying of the light,
when the lilac leaves tremble
one by one,
like tiny green drums
kissed by wet hands.

I watch them
and know something of prayer:
not certainty,
not brightness,
not the approaching thunder of answer,
but this—
the dimming light,
the damp touch,
the fragile rhythm
of what remains alive
even when the whole world
seems to fade
at the edges.

And I,
quiet as the darkening earth,
learn again
that creation often prays
before it weeps,

that the body trembles
before the sorrow comes,
that even fear
can be a kind of listening

when the world wans
and the leaves begin
their soft percussion
under the subtle caress of rain.

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