The Willow and the Wind
When I walk around the pond, there are willows.
I do not count them but each year there are more,
bearing bright yellow trunks and limbs.
This year the bullfrogs have blue faces.
We are not allowed to love them
because they are invasive.
They sing the wonderful song of my childhood,
but it has been said they belong
more in the South than the Pacific Northwest because
they eat the locals.
The pear tree is old and still makes fruit.
Vulture carries my joy in circles.
The field has been hayed and the next day
the altocumulus clouds line up
looking already raked,
like someone came to harvest the sky.
Do we reap what we sow?
Do we dream in tadpole?
The pink blackberry blossoms
and the bees enjoyment
The wild plums, tansy,
Long-lasting daisies.
The trumpet vine crawls along the ground,
seeming to not even care or notice
its flowers are hidden under the fir tree.
I have known my friend half my life.
Here he has created a place
where we can hear each other’s voices
like frog song;
See each other’s voices,
like clouds, like flowers, like stars.
The willow has always made the wind
feel right at home.
August 14, 2025
For Koon
fivewillowsliteraryreview.blog 