The Ginkgo Light
A downy woodpecker drills into a utility pole.
While you cut stems, arrange tulips in a vase,
I catch a down bow on the A string, beginning
of Song of the Wind. We savor black beans
with cilantro and rice, pinot noir; as light slants
through the kitchen window, spring is candlelight
at our fingertips. Ice crunches in river
breakup: someone shovels snow in a driveway,
collapses, and, hospitalized, catches staph
infection; out of airplane wreckage, a woman
identifies the ring on the charred corpse
of her spouse; a travel writer whose wife is in
hospice gazes at a lunar eclipse, the orange moon
at one-millionth of its normal brightness.
A 1300-year-old lotus seed germinates; a ginkgo
issues fan-shaped leaves; each hour teems.
A seven-year-old clips magenta lilacs for her mother;
"electrocuted tagging a substation";
patter of rain on skylight;
manta rays feed along a lit underwater cove;
seducing a patient,
he did not anticipate plummeting into an abyss;
over Siberia, a meteor explodes;
"I am happiest here, now!"
lesser goldfinch with nesting fiber in its beak;
love has no near or far.
Near Bikini Island, the atom bomb mushroomed
into a fireball that obsidianed the azure sky,
splayed palm leaves, iridescent black, in wind;
that fireball moment always lurks behind
the retired pilot's eyes, even when he jokes,
pours vodka, displays his goggles, medal,
leather jacket hanging from a peg. A woman
hums as she works with willow, X-Acto knife,
magnifying lens to restore a Jicarilla Apache
basket; she has no glimmer a zigzag line
is beginning to unravel, does not know within
a decade she will unload a slug into her mouth.
Through a moon gate, budding lotuses in a pond;
he stressed rational inquiry
then drove south into the woods, put a gun to his head;
vaporized into shadows;
quince and peach trees leafing below the ditch;
succession and simultaneity;
the branch-like shapes in their sheets;
up the ri-ver we will go.
August 6, 1945: a temple in Hiroshima 1130 meters
from the hypocenter disintegrates, while its ginkgo
buds after the blast. When the temple is rebuilt,
they make exit, entrance steps to the left and right
around it. Sometimes one fingers annihilation
before breaking into bliss. A mother with Alzheimer's
knows her son but not where she lives or when
he visits. During the Cultural Revolution,
Xu-mo scrubbed one million dishes on a tanker
and counted them in a trance. A dew point
is when a musher jogs alongside her sled dogs,
sparing them her weight on the ice to the finish.
Loaves of bread on a rack; a car splashes
a newspaper vendor on a traffic island.
On the road of days, we spot zodiacal light
above the horizon. Astronauts have strewn
footprints and streptococcus on the moon.
Chance sparks the prepared mind: a Cooper's
hawk perched on a cottonwood branch
quickens our synapses. In the orchard,
the sound of apricot blossoms unfolding;
mosquito larvae twitch water at the v-shaped
berm that pools runoff to the pond. We do
not believe we trudge around a flaming
incense burner on a road of years. As fireflies
brighten, we long to shimmer the darkness
with streamers. A pickup veers toward
then away, skewing light across our faces.
As light skews across our faces, we are
momentarily blinded, and, directionless,
have every which way to go. Lobelia
flowers in a patio pot; a neighbor
hands us three Bibb lettuces over a fence.
A cricket stridulates outside the window;
and while we listen to our exhale, inhale,
ephemera become more enduring than concrete.
Ginkgos flare out. A jagged crack
spreads across windshield glass: we find
to recoil from darkness is to feed the darkness,
to suffer in time is—dichotomous venation—
to effloresce the time. One brisk morning,
we snap to layers of overlapping
fanned leaves scattered on the sidewalk,
finger a scar on wrist, scar on abdomen.