by Kathryn Stripling Byer    This， he said， giving the hickory leaf    to me. Because I am poor.    And he lifted my hand to his lips，    kissed the fingers that might have worn    gold rings if he had inherited    bottomland， not this    impossible rock where the eagles soared    after the long rains were over. He stood    in the wet grass， his open hands empty，    his pockets turned inside out.    Queen of the Meadow， he teased me    and bowed like a gentleman.    I licked the diamonds off the green    tongue of the leaf， wanting only    that he fill his hands with my hair.