Leschi is a bush and the bush is angry and full of questions.
The first question, Leschi’s first question: “What are you that comes to Leschi?”
This is a trap and a trick, because there are no right answers to give. One must be careful with Leschi, one must be coy. Say nothing, but doff your cap, bow to Leschi. Pleased to meet you, don’t you know. Hello, old salt.
Leschi is a tree and the tree is choked by concrete, paled by iron.
Leschi has a question, and this is it: “Leschi’s roots are everywhere, and everywhere are Leschi’s roots. How deep do they go? What have they found there?”
Stay calm. There are no wrong answers to this question, for Leschi is everywhere and at all levels. What treasure does Leschi hold? Car keys and cat bones; paperbacks and forgotten loves.
Leschi is a vine and the vine is climbing and the vine is patient.
Leschi speaks and Leschi is slow and old and deep-voiced. Leschi is blue-faced and dignified; in the subways, in the bus engines, Leschi circumnutates. Leschi speaks for the green things, for the world bursting through into civilization.