San Leandro Creek early this morning,
so still, unmoving, only a shudder or two from frozen.
Under my feet, points of light twinkle
from the deep litter of dead leaves, each light
a leap off a frosted drop sparkling like a star,
adding brilliance to a damp and dark
forrest floor littered with corpses,
but how they lie lovely in their graves,
greens and yellows faded or completely gone,
but at least they have me, a grateful woman
for this carpet of gold and brown
under my feet where I spot a fresh leaf,
still yellow, others gold or dull green, or grey
as if born at the last minute
as if born at the last minute
then dropped from the exhausted arms
of these old trees. Just beyond I see
pure brown earth from which swollen roots bulge
silent and battered as if they popped
out of the ground in a plunge for air.
I can’t take my eyes off that sad disarray
of skins cast off by the eucalyptus trees,
as if in a rage about the shortness of everything
they are tearing off their clothes.
I find a long thin branch on the ground.
It serves well as a walking stick to steady me
up the slippery slope where my car waits.
Just one last look around before I go.
I'm pleased that all this winter dead--
its silence and bareness, its sharp chill--
doesn't carry me off to melancholy,
instead takes my hand and squeezes it.
