The leaves of trees are me
in ways more intelligent than one.
As mind, they are its own
illusions concocted by senses and spells.
As consciousness, they are part
and parcel of one universal body—
as is this hand now writing.
As pure awareness, it is mere
appearance—within
that nameless indefinable subject—
of which some display, at less
than the speed of light, is discerning
itself objects, being one
as borrowed subject—the other be leaf.
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