Comb of Leaves

Enough, I am to crumble to the floor;
But all around me are perceptive eyes.
I feel like going to my Father’s door
Where His house with its many mansions lies.

There shall I praise Him with tongues manifold
Borrowed from sounds and scents, from clouds and light,
From leaves of poplar combing streams of gold,
The coming back of goldfinches at night.

—Adib Saab