Verdure adjustment

Needle pines in palms.
The leaves grow, flow and blossom off these fingertips.
The brush of the wind, like the breath of mother earth, rustles what has formed.
Green, like the emerald forests that now hold my bones.
They sway and swoon catching the dying sun.
Holding onto the little jewels of oxygen for a moment too long.
Before the great exhale.
A chance to turn clouds into mountains that sail over tempting shores.
The leaves, bitter smelling like eucalyptus and amphetamines.
Fragrant and fragile, I break at a careless touch.
For the sun often harms, and this brittle heart demands a different type of love.
Shaded and soft, like a kiss from butteries’ feet.
Touching these olive blades deep.
High, tall and commanding if left in the sight of love.
These leaves, fronds of sweet depth cruise upwards.
Wanting to touch the sky.
And caress the face of God.

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