Shearing the Willows

I wrote this poem a few years ago when I passed this ancient willow in the town where I grew up. Someone had decided to cut the ancient lady down, and as I saw them preparing to make the first cuts a powerful wind blew up and carried much of her 'hair' away, to be blown about the workmen. A deep melancholy filled the air, as though in pause, the whole of the land were bidding farewell.

I, too, was swept up in this moment of remembrance as images from my childhood and the sight of that tree merged. I remembered driving past it so many times as a teen, not noticing it in my haste to be where I was headed. I remembered being driven past as a young child on my way to my grandparents house and watching the tree fade, wondering why it was so much bigger than the others that grew near. And I remembered that many years later, when I first returned to the area of my youth, passing that tree and smiling because it was still there.

I was overwhelmed with the autumnal feeling of letting go, loss, and a deep melancholy. So powerful were these feelings that words came swift but short, taking my breath and squeezing from my eyes the tears that the land could not shed for her.

Golden tresses blowing

flowing in the breeze

Little yellow locks

falling where they please

Covering grasses

in masses

of coins, fallen from trees.

And yesterday is gone

And tomorrow's never here

And today is covered over

With Autumn's last shear

And today is covered over

With Autumn's last shear...

Hope in Dreams

Late in the evening before father's day, after our son had finally settled to his rest, I watched Susan slip quietly into her own slumber. To watch the stress she carries melt away, as she let go, was its own sort of gift.
I spend many days watching the two of them in their dance; he testing every boundary, and she weaving a tapestry of patience and safety for him. It is these quiet moments between their needs that I find my own repose. I reflected further upon my role as a father, as a husband, as the me I have found in both and the me I am in these unobserved moments, when I can let go of my own spell that I weave.

Cool clouds settle upon the evening; a wispy blanket for the moon,

whilst peeping stars flash symphonic in a quickly fading sky.

And you slumber, again spent by the patient spell you have woven.

Beside, our son wrestles with fancies, and promises of fresh hewn grass.

On the morrow, you will wake and likely wish me well,

never realizing the gift you have already given in your silent sleep;

that peace glimpsed upon your brow.

What wonders you wear, when you dream.

and I wonder, do I trip as often there?

Or is that the place where grace finds my tongue?

One can hope. One can hope.