PoetryClaire de lune
Willow Tree
  • I sit under the willow tree,
    Waiting for you to pass by. 
    The moon gazes at me with a contrary smile
    While her ethereal shine bathes the granite chamber of thee.
    I read the poem you left before the call at nine,
    The unfinished, over-edited poetry.
    "O, dear Lord Gaia, should I depart o'ersea,"
    "Keep her sef safe, and I—"
    I am safe, but what is it worth
    When I know only half of me am?
    The night is cold, and so is the earth.
    Will you be cold, lying there with your Ma'am?

    I sit under the willow tree,
    Rewitnessing the instant when our threads met the Weavers.
    Those golden apples in your eyes enchanted me.
    O, whither fate escorts them, dear Ether?
    Say, love. Will they still be mine as years pass
    Or reclaimed by that Lady of yours?
    Is that you, whom the black carriage brought? Oh, alas,
    It's just the poor late Joshua.

    I sit under the willow tree, 
    Watching people reunite lovingly.
    And it thus swells, the pain in me.
    So this is hell, such silent, bloodless agony!
    I have read your name o'er and o'er again,
    And somehow that neat inscription
    Has stripped your shell from my heart and brain.
    Yet our threads stay entwined. 
    O you faceless recollection!

    I sit under the willow tree,
    The dying weeping willow.
    This branch is too hollow! 
    It's I who have to come to thee. 


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