Ginkgo leaves, like tiny fans
In the hands of proper southern belles, 
Wave and flutter in the trees. 
Soon they will lose their grip, then
With no more sound than a whisper,
Drop into the golden circle 
On the grass below
To become a part of the past.

Published by Elece

I am a photographer and a freelance writer. I write stories, poetry, gift books, and magazine articles––both print and online. Photographing children, places, and especially flowers is my hobby.

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