The Gingko Tree

Everyday I go to the gingko tree and
everyday I look to it for messages
in the papery fan-shaped leaves. I look
for words from a secret mother whose
notes I can put in my pocket and take
out one word by one word: Orange. Rake.
Cinnamon. Spider. I look for a lover
who assures me of the continuance
of life by growing tall-shouldered
and thick and scattering leaves --
especially the yellow ones -- on schedule.
I go to the gingko tree and ask what
to do, but that day is rainy and the water
is cupped like little eyeballs on
its fluttering extremities. I go
tell it to be a piece of "found
art" thought-extinct but in that case
its kinked branches don't even rustle
-- I want some fury in its hair, I want
some seething susurrations in its breath.
I go to the gingko tree and she
is a he without mate in a wilderness
of city park, street, library. And that
is the futility I ignore when
everyday I go to the gingko tree.

Copyright Louise Robertson