Photo (Op/tative) Synthesis

The general increase in green
accords in me
with a growing and specific gravity
about — it hopes —
to be undone like a bud.

What kind of   leaf
or the existence of  bugs
or the always later rumor
of   ravishment by wind or water
don’t interest me.

Sun does.
Come close.

Come slow.
And look me again in the eyes
as you do.

More Poems by Liz Waldner