Folklore

Gingko trees drop their leaves all at once,
which may be: true, partially true, or untrue,
given their cosmopolitan domestication, with
branches even here in the suburban Georgia

foothills. Google says “truth”, but the gingkoes
round the corner on Catawba Drive disrobe
slowly every year: days spent with golden
kimonos only slightly open. Some say sudden

grief can turn one’s hair white overnight, an
eclipse in reverse like coral bleaching, but
of course once hair climbs out of the scalp
it’s dead and can’t change its stripes.

Which reminds me of my sister’s partner
who empties the checkbook every
month without regard to kids or food.
Like tar pits or a moth trapped in amber,
his anger forever holds himself in place.

Gary D. Grossman
Verse-Virtual, April 2024