Photo by Collyn Ware

Beneath the Willow
--for Collyn

Not much grows beneath the willow.
Its leafy umbrella keeps out the sun,
so that the earth beneath it is moist
and barren.
Even the fungi have turned up their noses
at this spot, where light is always
compromised.
 
On the best days, the sun dapples a way
through branches which skim the earth
like a processional train.
 
But make no mistake:
there is an entire world here
beneath the willow.
You would know this if you push aside the green curtain
and enter.
Once there, your eyes—as eyes will—
struggle to adjust to the darkness of a summer afternoon.
 
But take the advice of one who has lived a thousand lifetimes there:
you do not need eyes to see what you have come to see.
So close your eyes.
It matters little—eyes open or closed—in this world
beneath the willow tree.
 
Outside, the sun shines as it must,
calling the blossoms and hours into sharp focus,
and the day inches on 
fraught with duty.
 
But beneath the willow tree,
you can try on different lives,
casting aside the rumpled remnants of one
in favor of another.
 
Here, you can do-over
and over.
 
Here, you can paint the sky apricot
and offer your heart, as open as a summer meadow,
to a world that always receives it
tenderly.
 
Here, the darkness is a feather bed
in which you can lay your weary worries,
and the oughts and musts have voices so small
that they are drowned in song.
 
Beneath the willow tree,
each day breaks in delirium,
a joy so generous that even the dirt
smiles.
 
So pass by if you will.
Give the willow a nod as you speed
towards somewhere.
 
As for me,
I will spend a thousand lifetimes here,
each one more splendid than the last.