orange

Landlocked, it is almost merely imagination
that island exists, where the bamboo wind chimes
hang above the door and sunshine spills 
on the floor and still so much left share--
the entire island a lake of sun.

Landlocked in the east, I move the writing desk
closest to the window and place 
the small pot of ivy on the sill. I watch the tree
standing at perfect distance, visible 
from crown to base, turn to fire to charcoal.

Snowflakes come between days. I take time
to watch squirrels and stray cats and walk
afternoons in this country of dreams. Yesterday
the little bookshop at the edge of the town
put up their closing sign. Mostly, all is quiet.

I am coming to know again friends who are sad.
Some mad. Mostly sad. 
These are not secrets. What is all over the news.
But what was I thinking about only four weeks ago,
standing at the edge of the west coast,

inhaling the Pacific?

And do you remember that poem by Gary Soto?
The one about a boy meeting a girl.
He held her hand, and on the other, he held
an orange, and it was bright, bright like fire.