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Sad willow weep for me.
My tears are the water
where you flourish.
My sins are your narrow leaves
that drop sunlight
and will not stave the rain.
Osier that holds fast my heart,
a shrubbery of regrets
weaved into a basket of nettles
and the feathered fluff of dead baby birds
the same sunny color as their yolks.
A shady acre now,
a willowy meadowland.
Where once yellow and saffron danced
in circuitous circles of wildflowers.
The willow's roots sink far below ground.
They are stronger than caskets.
They break bones until they are dust.
Grasslands that blow away to thirsty deserts.
Each grain of sand the seed of a willow.
Each meadowy willow land a tombstone dune.
Hope expires growing willows.
Hangman's ropes to swing on.
Pollinated by wind,
strumpets are the spiky catkins.
A gallow's shade, a dead man's purse.
Good to hide a wildling in.
A willowy meadowland.
Outside of Eden. Inside the park.
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Sergeant Floyd
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Sergeant Floyd
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