Under the Willow
What if the winter
crawls too slow toward a melting Spring,
what if the willow be buried alive
under the wight of a weeping sky?
A long deep sigh fills the land,
with the whites of numbed eyes.
Snow flows in and out
of a hollow stump.
What if the world quite forgot to turn
in its grave,
and under the willow, there unseen,
underneath that veiled mistress of time,
were heaped mounds of frozen shoes,
and none warm enough
left
to fill them?
Copyright © Eric Ashford | Year Posted 2024
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