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Corkscrew Leaves
Among stone paths and gardened eaves
there stood a tree with corkscrew leaves.
When fluttered down to dot the grounds,
they made a mild 'whooshing' sound.
The dirt encountered made for beds
undampened by their count of threads,
and when said leaves did land on nose,
they seeded fertile earth in droves.
What weight they held did plant them deep
and in the dark they'd tend to sleep,
but when they'd found their depths ideal,
a torrid breath was soon revealed.
The blood that rose from sunken veins
did parch the leaves in gnashing swathes.
A withered rot made fierce again
was gleeful as it rendered them,
and carried by this liquid crude,
it tarried in its interlude.
The corkscrew leaves fell bare of hew
while through them flowed this waste renewed,
and from their stems it trickled, dripped,
then traveled bare from root to tip.
At last exposed, it pools to gush
towards slopes that lead from it to us,
and when combined with river's flow,
it will persist with death in tow.
