How good it feels to empty a space
that stored my stuff for far too long—
a good seven years—for which I paid
for far too long, really a good-sized
walk-in closet a mile and a half
from home.

But Dick and I cleared out the last
of it the day after Thanksgiving—
two car loads, trundling box by box
to the garage where I will eventually
sift through it, discarding, if I am
motivated, more than I save.

Everything I need is here, at home,
along with much I don’t, the stuff
of a lifetime. This existence does not
need to be so deeply archived, though
I still have papers—so many papers!—
and books that will—let’s face it—
never be enshrined in a library.

Fall falls over us now, the last
ginkgo fans fluttering to earth
as the month swings into December.
I admire the trees’ annual letting go,
how effortless it appears. They don’t
cling to what needs to be released.

I close the garage, walk to my favorite
ginkgo that lives down the block,
scoop up some of its cast-off gold fans
to last me through winter, hoping,
somehow, to absorb a bit of this elder’s
equanimity.

Leafed or bare, the ginkgo
stands tall amid delicate breezes,
blazing sun, pelting rain, mindful
of all that passes, all that grows
and lives and dies, not taking any
of it too seriously, understanding,
somehow, that everything that
comes and goes, delightful or
tragic, is all just
weather.