It’s only when I look at trees—
This one—finally—reaching
Above the elevated train track
Trembling outside this window,
Glowing orange leaves scratched
On electric green, reaching
From the dirty earth—that I ask what it means
To be mortal, how we are living
Towards dying.
                        Sometimes your eyes glow like that,
Lashes tipped with sunlight, glimmer
Of wetness beneath.