Your branches will droop, too late to reach the waters edge.
Across plush paddocks long fat grass brushes our knees and covers the base of the blue willow.
Yearning can be switched off in your simple tree mind, why can´t mine be.
Insted of growing toward the clouds and the sun like any ambitious shoot, prostrate habit.
Adoring the river as much as the sun.
Too late to reach the stream the waters gone, there´s just enough to keep you green.
Some new invention on the other side of the hill took away the attention, now you have reason to weep.
And among your tortured bark hides a painkiller, a relief in the very sap that feeds your leaves.
Near the creek where the crowds would gather, and the summer bathers would linger under you like an umbrella.
Alone, shedding leaves in bitter winter winds, growing them back with tinges of blue on their tips, next to a dried creek bed once glistening and rich. Now a stony piece of land a scar, a stain, a ditch. Your roots in love with moisture, now they will know the dry.
A young child would climb you, looking for birds nests on summer nights. Or simply to hide.
And to their hands and feet your braches were never shy.
so whisper to me pale blue willow before you die,
You naturally look so sad, how will anyone see you cry?
Nenhum comentário:
Postar um comentário