Sunday, July 12, 2015
Weeping Willow of Remembrance
I am weeping willow,
lake-scent and whisperings
engraved on my heart,
in a small, sleepy town in the 50's,
water hitting the side of my grandmother's house
to wake me in the morning.
At my grandma's house,
it was always summer.
Willows weeping along the lake,
ripples lapping at the edges of my heart,
full of dreams of a future
I had no idea would be
so difficult, or so wonderful.
Bending willow, strong enough
to weather wind and storm,
but soft enough to harbor dreams
and nurture hope.
Weeping willow of remembrance,
down all the years, the sight of one
takes me back to that sleepy little town,
my grandmother's cottage,
the beginning of a journey too long for telling,
and far too short and swift
in the remembering.
A couple of commenters on my Hanging Garden Tree poem mentioned the weeping willow, and I replied that were I to write what kind of tree I would be now, it would be the weeping willow. So I decided to write it.