||[Jul. 7th, 2013|11:50 pm]
One cricket has come near, somewhere near the corner of my back yard. It makes a slow, steady chirp. The sky has no moon to brighten it tonight, but I see the stars once I wait for my eyes to adjust after I leave the house. It is pleasantly cool though the air is still. If only the leaves could rustle without a breeze— but that's the sort of thing I always wish. A sensible person would wish for a breeze to rustle them. Still, as the breeze is not ours to command, the sensible person would be just as disappointed as I am. Perhaps sense is overrated.|
The Man Who Wouldn't Plant Willow Trees
by Alicia E. Stallings
Willows are messy trees. Hair in their eyes,
they weep like women after too much wine
and not enough love. They litter a lawn with leaves
Like the butts of regrets smoked down to the filter.
They are always out of kilter. Thirsty as drunks,
They'll sink into a sewer with their roots.
They have no pride. There's never enough sorrow.
A breeze threatens and they shake with sobs.
Willows are slobs, and must be cleaned up after.
They'll bust up pipes just looking for a drink.
Their fingers tremble, but make wicked switches.
They claim they are sorry, but they whisper it.