Old Mother Willow

The Wind takes Old Mother Willow in his arms

and dances her between waves of sound and silence.

She pulls him down over her waving limbs—

a cloak of clear spirit worn

to ward her heartwood from harm.

She weaves, from supple withies, a willow crown

to charm his wits and make him handsome for his spirit bride,

who waits under the eternal arch, which

foams with blossoms, besieged by honeysuckle leaves

now touched by April’s wand of pulsing green.

Encircled by its wreathe of willow magic

the windy bridegroom’s mind holds still

as he steps out from under Old Mother Willow

and strides the spiral path he’s paved with pale stones

to meet his spirit bride under the wedding arbor.

When he leaves, he makes Old Mother Willow moan

and sigh—and when he’s gone she falls quiet

as one unborn.

Dowsing in Dream, she straddles the ditch

dug between realms seen and unseen.

Her roots drill down to form the wells

from which the waters of life are drawn and drunk.