The Willow of Richmond Street

In the spreading willow branches

I find myself swinging into the clouds,

Grabbing onto it’s long, tendrils and spiraling myself

                   Down,

                                                                    Down,

          Down,

                                         Down.

Leaving those budding branches of life

Reaching into open air and crashing onto the ground

Sending uprooted dirt into the air

Like a less flashy Fourth of July

Splintering, pushing and breaking all the objects

That came in between the reestablished relationship

That I and the earth had rekindled.

Such was the death of the 43 year old Willow tree

That my father planted upon attaining this house.

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