Willows
We sat down,
under a willow tree
and planted our roots
between, turning pages
and flickering eyes.
Breathing life,
into words being spoken
through a voice,
never heard by our ears.
Falling asleep, to
Spring’s faint culling song.
Broken and battered
by a lazy afternoon:
We believe,
that our dreams will
take us far, far away
to places only seen
by fortunate eyes.
We read our books
and the willow tree hooks
under our arms, sheltering
us from the outside world.
Showing us,
that the sacrifice
from his brothers
and sisters,
will educate us on imagination.
Are we the reader
or the writer,
of this wonderful place?
Do we save face
by accepting the spaces
in our minds, ready
and ripe for time,
to grow and wonder and salivate?
If we relinquish
these pages, for
the stages
of mediocre influence
and hollywood issuance,
will we falter
and sink, into the mires
of petulant fires?
We sat under that tree,
before our bodies grew
and our minds knew,
what was important
to the world. Forgetting,
what made us real.
And that willow tree
took back the gifts
we were given:
Wrapping us up tight
until our eyes, grew dark
and the circle of life
began, all over again.
