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.

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