Sunday, November 17, 2013


It's a slight breeze you feel standing underneath the ash and oak trees here on the property. You turn and follow the curved wing of a dead leaf, and your eyes find the willow. She stands young and long, teasing the ground with the very tips of her hair. There's a lot of teasing going on around here. The tickle of an idea from the wind just underneath the ear lobe wakes you up. A collection of small movements in the fingers and the toes in the air, long limb ends here seen suggesting more, so you just have to turn enough to spy it out with your eye. Come, and see, this tree says.

The willow, she calls me, calls me seen, calls mean, all lean out and over the driveway. I was once told such trees as willows seek out the water and find it. The roots grow thick and strong in the places where they find water, and the larger the source of water, the greater the hunger for water's meet. She soaks herself in the water, and through the miracles of light and green dancing 'plasts, she builds out of our nothing a world of hardened something. Who am I to resist being seen by the willow, when her very life depends on the basking for light and the grasping for water?

Who am I, indeed?

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