Book Leaf

They tread between lines,
hanging metaphors like rope,
veined toes curled around loops
like branches.
They reach from depths to skies,
scatter each other here
and there
like soft blessings,
seeping like ink into paper.
They press between pages like insects,
intricate, frail,
anorexic outbursts in perpetual shock.
They dance off-beat like drunkards,
ignorant of meter and form,
flitting like fireflies along
letters' crescent curves.
They creep into verse
like misspelled words,
abstract, dishonest and terse.
The chapter closes with a sigh of the page,
as nature rolls off the tongue,
unfolding, unraveling
like new life.