I know there's a place where the weeping willow blows
sweeping and grabbing my head hairs, dropping little
yellow flowers onto my skin. Leaving old leaves
inside my shoes, there to remind me this time
exists with and in me. Dangling its rope like
limbs at me; to reach up and pull down.
A green carpet for me to rest upon. Gnarly
bark the opposite of the smooth grey coat of
a city dove. How none of it knows my language
yet created it and is for it; what is this? and
this? I wonder here what are the things we can't say?
don't have the words or gestures to convey- the sound
the willow makes on paper leads on.. astray;
from the truth of it all- oh my god
how it is so wonderous. does it know itself? The
colors in blue tail feathers, but one can only hope
to find a bite to gnaw on, shuving its beak
forward, turning its birdhead sideways and at
an angle to see straight.
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