The willow is like
an etching,
Fine-lined against the
sky.
Then ginkgo is like a
crude sketch,
Hardly worthy to be signed.
The willow’s music is
like a soprano,
Delicate and thin.
The ginkgo’s tune is
like a chorus
With everyone joining
in.
The willow is sleek as
a velvet-nosed calf,
The ginkgo is leathery
as an old bull.
The willow’s branches
are like silken thread;
The ginkgo’s like stubby
rough wool.
The willow is like a nymph
with streaming hair;
Wherever it grows, there
is green and gold and fair.
The willow dips to the
water,
Protected and precious,
like the king’s favorite daughter.
The ginkgo forces its
way through gray concrete;
Like a city child, it
grows up in the street.
Thrust against the metal
sky,
Somehow it survives and
even thrives.
My eyes feast upon
the willow,
But my heart goes
to the ginkgo.
