• Carly Feinman

Day 68- 11.23.20

The ginko trees

In Brooklyn and Berkeley alike, they stink.

God they stink--terribly, awfully, and

delightfully, like soiled, wet socks after

a hurried walk through

a puddled parking lot.

They are most yellow, most neon

in their conviction to be seen

just after their berries have fallen--

the culprits of stench.

Do you think maybe they sense their diminishing wakefulness?

Do they sense the sleepy winter pulling the covers up

over their eyes?

Do they feel it in their roots?

Do you think, maybe, they're shining out

with such rebellious spirit,

with such pigment

in order to express their sadness

for the changing winds?

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