A handful of broken fingers,
a piece of Demeter’s crown,
the willow tree mumbles to the wind and water
an old woman lost in a storm,
gathering the melodies of graying sand
until gradually the wind wears her down
admitting ants to crawl beneath her skin.
Somewhere a child embraces a maple tree,
allowing the sap to anoint her face,
Somewhere blind mystics read the secrets
inscribed in the bark of oaks,
Somewhere pine trees chant
in a rustling of perfume soaked needles.
Of this the willow knows nothing
she is a sage of lake and wind,
a hermit on a barren shore
who, as the world erodes her
inside and outside, will fall
one with her lake
one with her wind
as wood and leaves become
a translucent film on the sea of eternity.