Ginkgo, who’s bare of your butterflies, all wretched right down to the bone,
it’s hard to believe they clothed you like leaves,
then flittered so far from their home.
Ginkgo, who’s bare of the truth in disguise, believing your beauty is gone,
dead wings on the ground as you look all around
replenish the roots in your lawn.
Ginkgo, my friend, the season’s reprise, that death is how life may atone,
the great wheel that turns shall ease your concerns,
as seeds of samsara are sown.