In the spreading willow branches
I find myself swinging into the clouds,
Grabbing onto it’s long, tendrils and spiraling myself
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.