This, he said, giving the hickory leaf

to me. Because I am poor.

And he lifted my hand to his lips,

kissed the fingers that might have worn

gold rings if he had inherited



bottomland, not this

impossible rock where the eagles soared

after the long rains were over. He stood

in the wet grass, his open hands empty,

his pockets turned inside out.



Queen of the Meadow, he teased me

and bowed like a gentleman.

I licked the diamonds off the green

tongue of the leaf, wanting only

that he fill his hands with my hair.