The willow tree….
The willow trees…..
Old poet told the girl. We must try to go back to where we were, if we can.
The bright-eyed girl asked with wonder, dear poet, I come to you by the willow trees daily. Every morning, I find you sitting alone with the books of Hemingway and Salinger. Are you seeking memories, salvation or waiting? He looked at her with sad eyes and he whispered. I tried to return to where I began. I stood in my place, I called home. I was a stranger now and no-one knew my name. I watched the city where I roamed as a child. I found memories of safe place and kind people. Now I did not belong.
She took his hands and she kissed them. She whispered, every day we share bread and coffee, you read my work with gentle and kind eyes. You make me want to write, to travel and you taught me. When you give everything away and escape the safety of home. Maybe home, is where we lay our head, when our body is tired?
The poet smiled and he told her. My kindest friend, you do listen to me. But my pretty friend, you must write your own story, you must paint your own picture of life. Life can be dirty or clean, sweet or painful, wonderful or sad. Us, who love to write. I believe we love the dirt more than the sugar.
The girl looked at the sky and she held the poet, and she sang to him.
“The willow trees near, you and I.
We are, just gypsy hearts, dancing and singing to the rising sun.
We don’t want to be saved, we don’t want to be captured or locked-away.
We are just the butterflies knowing, we shall find our proper place.
We whispered quiet prayers. Love be right, love me long, love me as-is.
Please Willow trees, allow me to dance with thee.”
The poet kissed the girl forehead and her face-cheeks. He whispered. My greatest honor was to befriend you. You make me laugh and feel safe. You are right dear friend. Dear home is where we can rest, where we are not strangers and where someone knows our name.