Under the willows of the tree
A fountain water spills to the tall staminate
Laying her life out for the parch and summer dry
Together for the rocks in arcane Roman solace
Divinity in the dust smiles for her lovers thirst
Among the thighs of birdswam banks
The litany of lists befall the clay of swollen yellow 
A water that names you in the sparking moment of her touch
Affinity bathed a leaf in her sunlight with tender mist
I loved to be told of the mist
Cloud-taste and the ripened vanilla sky
And the thoughts of angels dormant in the river bloom
Humbly knelt before the elder mother's roses

 

Time is bashful and knows her place in winter ruin
The willow measures her day
In this dying capriciousness of peach worn light
The dark speaks with his kings eye in hours of summerland

 

The willow her time is short
Hemmed in her days of ambit infancy
Selective of her earth
The universe in the blackwind of her time
Made not in the bone of the riverheart trail
So the willow can measure her day
This counting of suns over the shoulders of her lovers gaze
A prosy wind young among the blustery torrents of sky

 

And I was born of the wind
The willow crept beside me
Placed her love in my deepest shade
Her immortal ghost has a heart at my bedside
My willow is all but gone from time
It is a spirit at the close of day
Measured not in death but cantons of dandelion
The rain held out her ashing embers
I braved them to count my willow
There is no where left to go


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