(for Dickie)

I drive toward you under playful
fluffy clouds doing the sidestroke
through rain-washed blue,

thinking about the little ginkgo
in my front yard that years ago was
on its way to being a proper tree

when someone accidentally broke it,
and it became a bush. Just before
I got in the car, I stood next to it,

now a foot taller than me, the little
gilt-edged fans hinting of color
to come. Its larger cousins

in the neighborhood have already
shimmied into their fall wardrobes.
But my little tree is taking its time.

I don’t mind. I can wait.
And in the meantime, on my way
to make you a rare breakfast, I glory

in our city’s plethora of trees,
the ones that keep their clothes on
year round as well as the ones

that remain green until—
shameless strippers that they are,
and oh, how we love to ogle—

they drop it all, trusting the cycle
of the seasons to dress them again
when it’s time for their next act.