At twenty-two degrees, the leaves simply let go.
Cast by December's canted sun,
their shadows blur across my bedroom wall.

A single one floats left to right, then a maelstrom.

I want to stay wrapped in blankets watching them,
but, obedient even at seventy-five,

I dress and go to an early morning Nutcracker rehearsal
though my part, an aging granny, needs no practice.

To my delight as I arrive, outside the theater
ginkgoes are standing in puddles of yellow,
their leaves brought down by this first frost--

Five young trees, like girls after a ball,
stretch bare arms to greet the morning,
and step out of their crinolines.


From Ten Thousand Spiderwebs Bright with Dew (Kelsay Books, 2023).
Used here with permission.