My Name:
Silver Willow

  A Willow In February 
 by Charles Albano - 1998 

A willow's long fingers 
dangle naked, 
articulating freely against 
a stark, blue sky, 
talking back in scribbles 
to a passing wind. 

A duck flies over, 
intruding on their 
conversation. 

The scene is complete; 
I hang my head 
and step back into the house 
to warm my numb fingers 
at the fireplace, 
and resume the conversation 
I walked out on 
five years ago.

Why the willow?
It is their subtle beauty, as branches reach for the sky, then fall down and kiss the ground. And when the wind blows, their branches wave softly, delicately. I’ve always felt this pull to the willow.
When I was young, my grandparents had a large willow tree in their yard. Whenever my grandfather went to cut its branches from the ground, I would beg him not to. I loved the way it fell down so completely, thickly, hiding me from the world around when I’d crawled under to its trunk.
There was a smaller willow by my old home in northern Virginia, at the playground, and I remember staring at it every day when I played or walked past it to and from school. I remember pointing it out to my grandmother when she came to visit. I remember sitting by it and writing in my diary. I remember watching one squirrel bury about a dozen nuts under the light shade of its branches.

        The Weeping Willow 
       by Lyla Adams - 1998 

        The Weeping Willow
    hides our tears and
        pushes back our deepest fears.
      For if we let our secrets
    show, can you imagine the
         troubles we would get in,
      only to let one person know.
    And so with this I say,
      The Weeping Willow 
         hides us all as we
       let our tear drops fall.