There is a willow
by the river
rarely noticed.
She is not among the celebrated trees—
cherry blossoms and dogwoods in spring,
maples in October, and great old oaks.
Yet…
In spring, she is the first to bring us new green.
In winter, she is the last to leave, bowing to rest.
Her green fronds touching the river’s flow
were shaved to short stubs three years ago—
for picnic tables that never arrived.
Her fronds grow back.
Still, not fully.
They begin again.
She witnesses the ordinary…
couples who vow beneath her
a fisherman returning season after season, catching nothing
the child dragging a stick through mud on Sunday afternoons
and,
a patient, wizened man who leans against her trunk,
listening to the river’s voice at dawn.
Her fronds rustle and sway in
the faintest breeze.
This is her music.
And on one autumn morning,
the willow by the river
gave a lone photographer
a rare moment.
Every day I say my gratitudes alongside an aged willow that stands at the lake edge. In the late fall, encouraging to rest; by early spring welcoming it to awaken. Willows watch linger, and listen deeply.