Leaving Paradise

I moved to New York for an idea
animated by imagery:
red and yellow leaves, snow, and lots of walking.
Blue mittens and bloated coats
resembling pastry. And then six months later:
bare shoulders, grass roaring with bugs.
On my last Sunday in California, I stood knee-deep in the cold river.
In the distance scrolled green hills chevroned with pines.
Backslashes of dusty light printed themselves over the valley,
through the air that smelled of mint.
The view fell through my chest.
Yet I craved more difficulty.
Placidity had eaten away at my corners.
I sensed that if my days resisted me, I would change.
Maybe I would die,
I told myself as I stood above the Pacific
one final time, purple flowers tossing at my ankles.
It was the first time I’d thought about death
in seven years—in California I forgot about death easily.
Why couldn’t I just allow myself the pleasure
of loving my own life. No words, just this wind.
It lifted the color off the ocean and added it to my face.
I held on to the idea of an opposite life for so long
that when I acquired it something else had to take its place.
I can always go back, I told myself.
Back into life. I was lying. As the plane took off
I looked out the window—a blue two-toned lozenge.
I stared down at my past as it grew smaller and smaller.
The waves unwrinkled. The palm trees disappeared.
The image died. Could it be true
the art people make about death
is more profound than dying could ever be?
 
That idea turned all the leaves yellow.