A Weeping Willow reminds us: “except dreams come slower now!”
sometimes a gift comes under the tree,
so small it escapes notice initially,
and later it rises up, rises up in gloried
profundity; p’raps unintended, neverless
a gloriedstoriedreminder that we only own
just jutting out so much of time
to believe in
our dreams
beneath the tree, I too am-a-weeping willowed*scape,
my owned branches bent by burdensome time,
and never ever quite touching the nearby water,
from above,
that feeds and fed my tired rooted
from below,
from whence my dreams of spring and blessed glorification
always arose
this then how a passing thought,
a tenderizing whimsy notion becomes
is, and blossoming into a full grown poem…
my time to dream is the short stick,
life has chosen to give me, eyes to squint,
ears ask for louder~older help,
the bones creak, the mind just
squeaks ‘what was the,’
but my heart yet,
always an ‘and yet,’
but the heart sings
just-ice!
one more dream…