When the rain lets up,
I walk to the next block,
stand beneath my favorite
ginkgo in a neighbor’s yard.

I knew its former caretakers,
but they are long gone, which
happens when you have lived
in a place going on four decades.

I’m leaving before all the leaves
fall, but they’ll be gone by
the time I return.

The new people aren’t home
today to see me admiring their
tree, pilfering gold fans like
coins from their lawn.

I forgot to bring a bag, so I
scoop up as much treasure
as I could, feeling the sweetness
of new drops on my palms,

and, leaf thief that I am,
walk home with my
bounty, carrying a whole
season’s sunshine,

feeling ever so rich.