16th and T, NW
That ginkgo
grows with fellows,
lines the promenade a
hundred years or more.
Its spotty crown—
the ginkgo way—
is sculpture like
not shading much.
Its trunk once took
a wrought iron fence
into its body
inches deep.
And now it yawns
the passing storm
does not impress
it lays itself to sleep.
That crown appears
a smallish branch
as I approach it
from fell North;
and only closer
do I see its trunk
kissing a bruise
across that gentle street.
