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?