This is called "And Swept All Visible Signs Away."
Easy enough to say it's dark now.
But what is the willow doing in the darkness?
I say it wants less for company than for compassion, which can
come from afar and faceless.
What's a face to a willow?
If a willow had a face, it would be a song, I think.
I am stirred.
I'm stirrable.
I'm a wind-stir thing, the song would go.
But there is no song as there is no face.
There's just the willow as willow.
Nothing about itself, its shadow meaningless except to those
who want for shade and find it there.
Who keep finding they hardly care anymore.
Almost some days as if they'd never cared about connection.
Green as water, the willow's motion.
Green as oblivion, the willow's indifference.
Flecked with a little gold, some blue.