Willow Weeping

6 12 2012

Darkness, and she’s hard to see.

City light from autos and stores, streets and porches diffuse into gray green brown skylight.

She catches some of the leftovers,

Enough to reveal a stick figure standing alone and looking old.

Many branches are broken, twisted, no longer cuddling leaves.

She’s no longer noticed, except in spring when she giving again extends her arms,

And people curse her cotton.

Concrete pillars and walls with steel roofing above make her home.

Junk and rubbish with weeds striving below make her bed.

The perfume about the subsoil embankment that is her night stand: smoke and fumes exhausting.

And the moon above to grace her features: a floodlit water tower.

A wooden groan nearly silent says, “Tired. So tired.”

The smog begins to radiate.

A headlight sneaks under the span, searches through, looks beyond.

The insipid color glazes her still standing form,

But her shadow gets up onto a wall.

It shudders, it trembles, yet it begins another move, a move to run, to run and run.

Other shadows stumble and crowd.

There is a struggle, a scramble, a straining and lunging and screaming,

Eager for the promised revealing.

“Cannot stay.  No longer can I stay.  I must, must get away!”

As in a dream, running running running and still, for now, no way.

The light becomes bright and suddenly passes as the train smashes through the darkness.

Roaring smoke rolls into rising dust seething.

The bridge echoes solid, and above its road runs firm under other rolling roaring traffic.

The tree still standing shakes to her roots.

Then silence.

In the stillness, a few leaves drip to the ground like tears.

And I, I sit this night under this viaduct,

And I feel in the conflict between God’s creation and God’s creation.


Excerpted from the novel entitled Conversation: Walking the Talk, which is available as an ebook at Amazon.




One response

8 12 2012
Immanuell Domunge

Liked the last line best. SA metapyhsics thought in the despair.

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