Member-only story
Pollarded Willows
In the season of dying,
my leaves strewn about,
blown away.
A blue season.
Long, low winter light
strips bare
and exposes all
flesh and bark
to a man whose brush finds
beauty in the unlikely places —
winter sunsets
wild grasses
blue willows
The land turns warm under his gaze.
Today I am not beautiful;
knotty trunk spindly knees,
my green and white turned midnight.
But he reminds me, beauty is about context
The us together.
the shooting weeds,
the twisting branches
the starburst swirls of a setting sun
Oily remnants of the brush
that paints, not beauty seen,
But beauty felt
the eye of the beholder,
the tongue of the translator,
the beat of the heart that knows great love
and greater self-inflicted pain.
The heart unafraid of the world as it is,
but starving for an impression of the world that could be —
I am frozen blue in these brief moments of yellow optimism.
