The Willow

I am a nomad

and seldom hold anything

old or familiar

we cannot carry in our arms.

 

The days push

and pull me

eddies in the river dragging me

far from your roots.

Hours spent whispering secrets

and truths as I shared my soul

hoping for something,

anything in return.

 

Finally, we admit the truths that break us

that your soul lie far away

numb and unfeeling to all

save the simplicity of body heat.

 

In the legend

a girl would offer herself

to the willow tree, icon of weeping,

to be his bride.

She wastes away,

a waif to the most devoted of loves,

the most mistaken of passions.

Dying at his trunk in true tragedy.

 

The moral of the story-

we give everything for closeness

that may complete us,

but leads to our undoing.

 

I am a nomad.

I love the willow tree.

There is clarity in this as there is

constancy in the willow and a wildness in me. 

But I cannot face that fate

wasting away season after season

waiting for a heart to beat

within you that belongs to me.

 

Loss is truly why the willow weeps.