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.