Under the Ginkgo, Midday

That autumn, it was a road where the ginkgo leaves burned yellow. The first time I called that name, and the last, the tree was scattering the same light. When the wind blew, a single leaf spun in the air and touched my shoulder. Was it a name as light as that weight, or a season as heavy as that name. The ginkgo leaves, all that autumn and still now, keep falling little by little. That the season came twice is reason enough for me to remember that year for the rest of my life.