The days are suddenly shorter; the scent of
brisk air when I wake, inviting melancholy
tied to winter need. Instinct buried deep,
that sunshine and sustenance will soon grow
scarce? But there’s comforting memory as
well: heat from the fireplace blaze, a wet but
soothing thaw after sledding outside for hours.
Childhood leaves its imprints, remote and often
faded, only to swell at incongruous moments
like now, here in the late afternoon warmth, as
hundreds of seagulls circle above this lagoon,
white specks in the distance shimmering with
light against the western face of Tamalpais,
from the Miwok támal pájis, “coast mountain,”
an approximate translation they say. I was once
a mountain girl, but not this kind; no ocean
near, frozen ground for months, and snow swirling
as white shapes in wind like these gulls I could
write, if I wanted simile today but I don’t. I just
want these gulls as gulls, rising and circling,
circling and soaring, and I want the pull of
the tide in and then out . . . waves of ache tangled
with rapture; this poem a rough decoding of
the fugitive sway.
Virginia Barrett
Virginia Barrett is a poet, writer, artist, editor, and educator. She earned her MFA in Writing from the University of San Francisco, where she was the poetry editor for Switchback. Her six books of poetry include Between Looking and Crossing Haight—San Francisco poems. She is also the editor of four poetry anthologies, including RED: a Hue Are You anthology.
