The sideways stretch of willow’s rise
towards the light, over the lake
with roots entrenched in water’s breath
reminds me of far younger limbs.
We drank its life with thirsty eyes
and tossed our lines imperious
from lung to lung and tongue to tongue
as climbing, thought to never fall.
Perhaps you know the tree I mean,
whose branches held us year through year:
those moments lost as drops of rain
whose ripples fade as they become
rejoined with earth’s cyclical corps.
The trunk is smooth and welcoming,
inviting us once more to feel
soft brushing fingers splayed in climb
and muscles tightly gripped in legs;
where one foot leans in old-time’s-sake,
one hand reaches to future’s hold.
Were you as vine to me, or leaf?
Of wind-stirred touch, or steady hand?
Some times I think we have been all
the aspects of the willow tree,
my wistful sorrow and strength both
engrained in heart and memory
these limbs of childhood that sway
in challenge and in loyalty.
Tag: memories
Citrus fingers
Citrus fingers and sticky lips,
Smiles flashing with words I missed
That wet-hair night, slick pavement light,
The hours led to where I’d never been;
Right down the centre of the street,
Right up the rafters, echoing stairs–
You remind me of someone I’ve always known.
Did we slurp popsicles in backyard summer?
Were we running in grass-stained torn-jeans sock-feet?
Did I dream the ocean was a running faucet,
And we were just putting on the kettle?
I agree with the colour of your eyes,
They send me jam jars full of springtime:
New green and the smell of morning rain;
This is hardly a memory,
But one day, maybe, it will be.
Soft Beginning
Yellow leaves in November breezes,
Twirling along the first snowfall of winter:
If only for an evening, if only for an hour
You’ll walk alongside the visible tread of time.
There is a beginning glimmering
In the end of fertile seasons;
There is a softness spreading
In veins of ice, like open palms
Covering familiar ponds:
Their ripples stilled at slightest touch.
Swirled at the bottom, in the dregs of the year,
Landed lightly on frozen earth
Despite the V of fleeing birds:
A soft beginning.
And it reaches you in humble ways,
Like tentative wind through tiny holes in knit sweaters
Like the faintest memory of childhood houses:
You’ll see the lights all over again
Hung in half forgotten windows
Framing the refrain
Of your mother’s favourite Christmas song
And the simple words you used to write:
In windows and fog of your innocent breath,
Disappearing when daylight came again.
In all that’s past
And all that’s ended
A soft beginning, mingling.
Mackenzie Lee 