Willow

Everyday I attend
to my willow:
with gentle words,
nurturing, I seek
to preserve its
beauty, finding
it even in the severe
lilt of scaly leaves.

I am not afraid of sadness.

Everyday I attend
to my willow:
not that it needs tending,
tenacious roots
reaching deep into
soil, though
not far from lake,
this bread basket
is rich.

Sadness imbues resolve
into life.

Everyday I attend
to my willow:
as I furiously scribble
on the page, words
somehow come to me,
spongy mind memories
diffusing from code:

I record colours from
the sunsets set in deep
purple and indeterminable
pink,

I record footsteps in time,
soft thuds against pavement
and gravel, in meandering
fashion,

I record, most piercingly,
soul sadness and soul
resolve, abjection present
in every letter, special tint.

Everyday I attend
to my willow:
seeing myself in its image
and wanting something,
cascade of quixotic ideas
as waves lap the shore gently,
and gulls swoop overhead.

I find the limits of sadness
and remake the boundaries of being.