99poems/chinabII

In fall the chinaberry’s
golden leaves drifted down
one at a time,
until they carpeted
the damp ground.
By winter the chinaberry
was bare.
“What happened
to the tree,”
my daughter exclaimed.
A native So Cal girl,
who forgot the word
deciduous.
I raked the leaves
in batches, to no avail –
they still turned
to compost in the rain.
A slippery unappealing mess.
I photographed it,
the image dissected
by the garden hose.
The white chairs
tipped against
the glass table
and titled it:
My Backyard
In Winter.

5/26/99