The unfilled air space, the interval,
the gap in the vascular tissue of
a stem through which a leaf grows,
unseen to our wondering eyes—
the lacuna—

air space in the cellular tissue
of plants like the ones
presently flourishing
overhead in such
abundance.

Seemingly thousands
of leaves have sprouted
so quickly that we strain
to envision the skeletal trees
of winter,

now fluffed out like
green sheep up there,
grazing on spring air,
bouncing around
happily,

tightly bunched foliage
closing the gaps so
that only pinpricks
of space remain
unfilled,

showering us with
winking diamonds,
sun sparkles that
catch the eye of those
gazing upward,
amazed.