Willow

Catkin strands, dew speckled
By the flick of a painter’s brush,
Dance to the melody of birdsong.

When the time is right, and when she is ready,
She sheds her ethereal evergreen
in a deciduous death.

A confident unrobing reveals
a gnarled bodice tormented
by the strokes of the clock.

Skeletal spindles
skim still waters
sending ripples into the distance.

Her twisting body,
Brackish roots,
Firmly planted. Unmoving.

She is not weeping, but ebullient.
She is not brittle, but powerful.
She is not rigid, but supple.

She is not searching for sympathy,
But biding her time to bloom.