The willow shrubs
Speak spring when
Cold and ice recede,
Warm buds dressed
In wooly cotton coats
Brownly grey.
The willow trees
That weep
Draped yellow twigs
Hairshafts
Blowing with breezes
And summer locks
Hanging with the harps of exile.
I have become like willows
Weeping before the doors
Death shut strong
And fast.
What key can be fashioned
To unlock the silence?
What window found to
Peer into mystery
The Light beyond this
Painful vale.
Like spring, hope
Dawns against the cold
Bitter wind
Stripping happiness.
My heart finds courage
To bud forth swathed
With warm memory
Goodness, innocence, peace,
A blessed gift this humble life
Willows both grey and gold.
