the warmth of your leaves makes me
think of all the secrets I've told you
and the many years we've been friends
you hold them all down and deep within
I think of that beautiful picture I paint
in my dreams every time we're together
I remember the times we've cuddled up close
when ever I was afraid or had a problem
you were always there for me whenever

there you stand with your feet under ground
you shiver from the wind’s bitter sound.
fall has come so very cold,
you still stands quietly with tears
streaming down yellow and gold.
yes, fall has come to knot the summer tie
please, willow tree please don’t cry

there is a breeze in the air this evening
as I sit under you my willow
the wind caresses my cheek
and I see the blue sky above me
it seems your swaying leaves
are becoming too weak
I've felt the tips of your leaves
and tasted the tears in which you weep
I've laid against your trunk and listened
to your heart as it skipped a beat

I began to wonder
what wondering really is
it's a curious thing to know
dispatched; but why?
I now see why you cry
I will hold your trunk my willow
until its time to say goodbye
please don't weep more
for heavenly light shines through
this bright wonderful sky
for which you've cried for me
and now I'm crying for you

And I sit here once more,
Sun beginning to fade over the makeshift
Horizon of wooden plank fences and shingle
Roofs, glued to the homes with tar whose
Invading smell has long since passed.
On the shore I sit, a shore made of
Overgrown weeds whose leaves look no different
From the eruption of water that juts out
Of the center of the lake,
The ripples seeming to roll over themselves,
As if they are trampling over each other to
Reach me, and looking away from the metallic
Distraction in the center of this pool of wonders,
It's as if a river is to be flowing in place of the lake,
Lapping across rocks and echoing splash of ducks and
Geese dismounting their current of air,
Swiftly gliding along the filmy surface,
Like a mirror smeared with lubricant,
For the reflections this lake cast cannot
Easily be told apart.
Dark beckons the lights' full departure,
And with it the warm is swept solemnly from
The land, and my bare hands burn like the
Approaching summer's heat.
I thankfully clutch my leather coat against
Myself, and I gaze upon the lake, wishing
Its limited stretch could  further.
As I trace my eyes across its
Waves, a young woman in a pink sweat
Coughs roughly and spits in the water,
As if it's beauty must be destroyed along
With that miserable soul of hers.
The willow tree I sit under,
Oh how massive it seems, its coarse bark
Digging through my jacket and on the verge
Of penitrating my skin, but, it is worth it.
Its vines hang down wearily,
Like an old man, reaching to grasp the
Water, leaning so close, its reflection can
Be seen from shore, and its desperate vines,
Swaying in the wind ask me to come closer.
I shall not, of course, for it needs to
Grow on its own, and needs to rid of
Its reluctance if it ever wishes to achieve
Its reward.

This, somewhat reminds me of myself,
But, this is only yet another wonder,
Collection of thoughts,

From under the willow tree.

I imagine her to be laying in a bed of sun flowers
Or walking gracefully through a field of tall grass
While the Suns setting
She's sitting under a willow tree
Smiling at me
her hazel green eyes glisten with the Suns reflection
I imagine her in this place
A happy place
So that this does not strike the match in my heart
And reignite the pain

beacons of thunder,
glow of a kindled lantern

small embers that whisper,
but clap like god shot a gun

shimmering in that darkness
of disconsolation and remorse
a diamond of its own

a soul looking for a love to call their home

and my heart still glows
bright like the lights that leads me off cliffs

I do not care what people say
your whole life can pass by in six seconds
it doesn't exist;
a holographic reality

Life is a meditation
A place of oneness
A higher consciousness
Because you have to live.

Red reeds and a freckle of flowers bowing
before rubber wheels
tossing pebbles and sand and a whirlwind of dust.

Their plan had caught wind and taken flight against them,
like an ardent breath that leaps from battle chests
that knowingly march somewhere behind the tall thick of trees.

The rain won the sprint before the inky giants (stuck in the review mirror)
and began to speckle the seats from the gaping sunroof,
but the lovers hadn’t noticed.

Their hearts beat in unison, adrenaline seemingly driving the engine.
Four, bone-white knuckles chocking to hang on:
one pair on the steering wheel, one on the other’s shoulder, and one on the door handle.

The tires drop off and bash themselves against the stones
beneath a spray of clay and water and maggots,
as they swerve off the beaten path.

They wade through the churning waves of grasses
the wind now rushing past, splashing against their spine –
their naked necks and tangled locks swimming in the invisible rapids.

Their sanctuary lay before the whirlpools,
deeply rooted, scarred with letters, scarred with hearts,
and beautifully draped with thin weeping twigs, tied off with lace.

The car’s backend swung as the tires drifted.
The two men flung themselves inside the umbrella of branches,
untied the lacy bows, and drew the curtains closed

The willow tree would have to stand in for their officiant,
for their family, their friends, their honored guests and witnesses,
for they had none.

They both stood in front of the tree as the wind swayed,
once from behind him, and then once from behind him,
all the while their tearful eyes exchanged  silent “I dos”.

The one reached inside a burrow beneath the great trunk,
to retrieve their rings and crowns of flowers,
while the other anxiously stood watch behind him, awaiting the thunder.

Gentle hands ringed their fingers with silver bands,
and crowned their heads with white and blue petals,
then carefully chiseled into the bark their names and their heart with a pocket knife.

The two men pressed their palms to the tree to receive their blessing,
and then pressed their lips together, now salty and wet,
sealing their souls with a slow passionate kiss.

But instead of a burst of rice freely sprinkling the atmosphere
there was a burst of shotgun pellets
tearing through the whispers of love and leaves.

The men sprinted to the car,
dodging the fires of intimidation,
and drove off with their life, leaving behind the fear and shame.

They turned on the heater to try to warm up.
but it was long before they were dry,
the rain’s echo nearly drowning out the sounds of their shared breaths.

Between her and our
Almighty Beloved,
this mustard seed faith
grows as the willow.

I wish you’d let the sky shine bright for you.
It’s so blue outside, the good kind.
Move the curtains to the side, sneak a glimpse,
Sip the air
slowly
and whistle it out.
Step carefully so you can hear the porch steps creak
and feel the wood under your bare feet without
worrying about the splinters. There aren’t any.
Just come outside.

The fields will part when the time is right,
and the sky will illuminate the guiding side.
And when you find that the earth can hold your weight,
that the world won’t collapse when you confess your fate,
you’ll see how the clouds shield you just the right way
from the hard rays of the sun, but you can still see the glow.
And it may time some time, your feet may burn and sore,
Blister even, maybe, but time heals all wounds, I swear,
Even the worst of heartaches.
Even my heart is breathing again, slowly.
It is

pumping.
Just consider that if glass shards can be glued back together, mirrors hung
back on the wall for Snow White to get ready in, and the
veins in my wrist sealed back up with love and rain,
there is another day for you to see.
I am not porcelain. I am weak,
But every time I am broken to the ground,
I rise like the willow tree.
There’s a reason she’s my favorite—
For she haunts her pleasures and cries all day,
But seeps her sorrows into the ground till her spirit
Rises back up through her veins.
The rings of the tree reflect not just her age, but her strife.
This woman has been broken. She’s crumbled yet rised.

She never dies, only cries.
The willow tree will always survive.