On a day like today, walking the dog, the sky 
clear as glass,
I’m wish-staring at my favorite houses,
like this two-story Spanish stucco,
because it’s autumn 
and the leaves of the Japanese maple
are glowing like lit lanterns, 
so bright if they were bells, they would ring.
Sometimes the mind just moves in.
Like that day in kindergarten 
When our teacher led the class
through the sycamore-edged streets 
of our neighborhood. 
She asked us to point out our own house 
as we walked past it, 
but I picked out the ones I loved instead.
Maybe one with a gabled roof, 
storybook shutters or an empty swing set 
in the back of the yard.
I believed in some way they were mine. 
I couldn’t explain, then, how love lays claim, 
holds a lien.
How it leans in, pries open whatever 
can be possessed.
She told us the only home we can call ours 
is the one we live in, 
as if there’s no ownership for the mind,                   
for the eyes’ insinuation                
or the heart’s unlawful homesteading.   
If I could see her today, 
I’d have to ask her, what about the gardener
across the street, relaxing in his pickup,
eating a sandwich from home, 
listening to “Vivir Mi Vida” playing on the radio,            
remembering how his blower 
chased the last leaves of the persimmon trees
as if he could own it all:
the house, the yard, the air. The leaves                    
as they rose 
like a flock of golden wings.