The ginkgo tree beside my bedroom window

is one of the last ones hanging on on the block. 

In summer it fills the room with green reflected light. 

Like an extension of the forest. 

Got a green duvet and green sheets 

to really pull up that blanket of leaves.

It’s a vibrant yellow now, 

bordering on a sort of bile color.

But when everything else is a wash of browns,

I’ll take any pop

I love the sound of rain pattering on it

But the absolute best sound 

is the crunching under car tires 

as people slowly maneuver out of tight city parking.

Every day is a new day for tiny observation.

For grounding by counting and breathing.

But when asked to be conscious of the practice 

I find myself annoyed at the hokey suggestion. 

Are my jade colored glasses

Preventing betterment? 

All of the work I don’t make 

and all the writing I don’t transcribe

Feels to me like a shiny wet rock, 

brought home from the river.

And discarded once dry,

no longer apparent that it’s beautiful.