The branches domed above his head.
Lifted up, the leaves
would press against the light
and translate through their porous flesh
the story of heaven.
In the still air,
on the soft floor,
he would turn and read the prophecy
written in that brilliant green,
looking for the figured one
that would come: Postured
centerward, a heralding of red
amidst the native green.
A scribe, he waited with his pencil ready.
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