Now is my turn to speak, if I
can claim it, tipping myself forward,
letting my tongue fall with a soft,
an inward, an almost inaudible click.

Now the leaves turn, turn in the wind,
tipped by the wind, or the sun, by the wind
and the rain, by the season, cupping their ears
and listening in, listening out

for the telltale sharp intake of breath
that happens only every time
around again, my turn again,
it’s now, this in-between, or never.