In a Copse of Hardwood Green

In a dark copse of hardwood green
Two old and gnarled ficus trees
Lift up close to one another
Their rugged trunks nearly touching
As if to form one bulky thing
Their roots, pinioned feet enfolded
Branches, forlorn and leafless gray,
Entwined from decades of reaching
But also in this deadwood gloom
A leaflet uncurling outward
Startling as a heartbeat in stone
That has stopped and then beats again