Poetry: Untitled

Amidst the Stygian sky
I see a silhouette of a branch; one of several gnarled fingers
extending furthest into the inky opaque - upward.
An ambitious appendage.
Two feet beneath its niggardly fingertip
is the southernmost point within which a leaf cluster is bound.
The leaves,
you can tell their tops from bottoms;
it is as if they are illuminated from beneath.
Their belly's are pale and infrequent,
amidst the several that are cloaked and entwined.
Here, two feet from the top,
and just beneath the cluster,
there is a bright shape that seems the size of a leaf;
it looks like a leaf.
When the branch from which all others in the cluster stem
is steadiest;
When the wind rests;
I am almost convinced that the shape is in fact a leaf
affixed to a branch;
Enlightening the few.
It is radiant and particular.
It must be a flower!
Upon further inspection
there is an X atop it, perhaps beneath.
Like a fine felt tip marker of similar brilliance
drew this X - coalesce - not atop or beneath, but as spokes.
Four points
Furthest from center
Diffusing in to the night sky
like the raised arms and spread legs of the Vitruvian man.
It is a flower!
The wind picks up;
The branch moves
The fingers twitch
The shape is steady, but not affixed.
It is not a leaf,
but still a flower. It rules the night sky.
Deep is the hour.