God and the Ginkgo

Perhaps God is like the Ginkgo tree. Maybe Her golden leaves are the last of many, the only proof left of the long history of emerald fans and maidens' hair. Stories-- myths-- of Her former family fill the air wherever men gather. Some say She's gone--extinct, that is. Others, well, they still remember the whistle of the warm summer breeze, the swaying of Her curved limbs, Her feathery hands reaching for the skies as if to wisk the clouds away from the sun.

Perhaps the journey is yet to be finished, Her roots undiscoverd, and maybe, just maybe, the tree we call God is waiting, hidden in some wooden garden in the east and guarded by serious men called monks-- waiting to be rediscovered.

What happens once we discover the tree? Do we plant Her in every courner of the earth? Or, do we leave Her be, untouched by soiled non-monk hands and the unclean air from across the seas?

Perhaps the Ginkgo doesn't need to be freed. Perhaps She's happy in the monks' company, alone and yellowing in Her life's late Fall.