A single green leaf that fell from the stout tree
With a patchwork of veins on a green canvas
And beauty known, not singly, but together
As are words without a craftsman, alas!

I know not such class as to weave ‘ere words,
For that you need a magician, who is but quiet,
Mesmerised in words, for words are all he knows
Then society falls for him and christens him a poet.

He is but human, but has his way with words
He gathers them together, and stacks them like dominoes
And as the first word is spoken, and the first domino toppled,
We are trapped in their fine stratagem, like a band of coyotes.

Their words are nor too harsh, nor too dulcet,
Nor too real, nor too dreamy,
Nor are they hypothetical, nor factual,
But delicate, like a single green leaf that fell from the stout tree.