Westward Facing

The westering sun on the gold gingko leaves

And it is January in California: they’re confused,

These trees.  Some even look tired, sending

Out rushed buds while other stems are still green.

We wear our coats just to get them out of closets.

It’s a stolen sort of season; the autumn skips

Over winter and goes straight to spring,

But the sharp slant of the sun says the solstice

Is past: Its watery cast is lovely, uncertain.

I stand under the gingko shimmering in a kind

Of sourceless wonder, sudden disbelief

That this could be real, fan-shaped leaves 

Spinning to the ground, me too warm in my skin.

Comments

[SJ]

I think this is one of your best! Feel whole.