The Girl of the Golden West

That's not you. You look at San Francisco Bay 
As one who looks back east while looking west. 
The gulls would never cry in your youth. A wren, 
Only, peeped and pecked on your window sill. 
And no ships anchored half a mile away 
To refract the glint of the noon sun that tests 
Your colored glasses. You sit on the sand. You mend 
Your blouse. You hear the gulls cry freely, shrill. 

You hear our mother call. You smell the lunch 
Of greens you pulled this morning right by the house 
—The house bordered by the apple orchard. Dad 
Straddles the limbs of a Jonathan tree. You munch 
A cider apple. You shake the tree to shake 
Him down to lunch. O Father in your wake 
Came a hail-storm of apples. You were a mouse 
Nibbling his autumn store, and your heart was glad. 

Your skirt swings to the gait of his tall legs. 
They span the creek between the orchard and home. 
He stops to lift you across. Our mother calls 
Once more. That moment sings like the gulls crying. 
You would find transit home to our father's walls, 
And mother spreading the table. Not alone 
Like this with the sun heating your heart that begs 
A root in life. And the gulls flying, flying 

Around their present home. This is not you. 
You take a final stitch and wake to the fog 
Gathering across the Bay. The Ohio town 
Is not across the Bay. You are years from home. 
You fold your glasses. Now you see break through 
Your dreaming day a wave that soaks the log 
Of your journey west. You stand and look around: 
The ships lie still at anchor…aloof, alone.