Under my feet

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 

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.