One single leaf
concealed among
the spread pages
of its family
somehow avoids
each of our
placid stares
as we stroll by
to our oblique
destinations
(the question
remains unasked
to this day by
a populace too
busy to know
what's real)
toward the secret
(there is no leaf)
lost again when
the last finger
nail latch gets lifted
from the lock on
our root cellar
door down here
in this dark quiet
musty realm
the light of day
never once licks
but instead must
visit in the form
of a hidden egg
cracked into song
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