The willow tree is dying, and I,
so of myself, would ask
what I might do to save it.
As if a tree should not be
seen as glory laid so low in
western winds, so slow to
loosen at the root, opening
to the sky, returning to the
earth. The host of shade and
song will rest in pieces in my
woodpile just in time for
eyes to empty of the grace, for
heart to sadden at the loss, for
mind to mend in fair resolve
to be as tree when
I myself will open and return.