THE GINGKO BARES ITS SOUL

All in a rush like a late October
flight of geese when the leader wheels
to the front and the flock follows,
the gingko lets fly its leaves
from their stubby shoots—
and in moments the ground is a pool
of yellow-gold.

                            It's the same
each Halloween, as if the gold is
only a blind; and unmasked,
the tree waits, bare and mute, until
spring—when the buds unfurl
into cool green fans.

                                     When my time
comes, I want to reach out
my yellow arms, let my leaves
go—not one by one, but all-in-a-
flash! I want to fill the dead
flower beds and the bird feeders,
the gutters, the fish pond, the chinks
in the old stone wall—

                                       till I'm nothing
but wind and weeds and a drift
of leaves—enough, maybe, for a child
to lie down in and sweep out wings.

by Nancy Means Wright                   

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