Willow’s Message

Of all the willows on this land,
one is very old.
Years ago, she fell.
She lies broken,
partially uprooted,
but flourishing.

She rejoices,
closer than ever
to her beloved Earth.
She reaches down, down,
into the mud,
and up, up into the sky.

She weaves
thin branches into shelter
for small ones,
perches for sparrow and blue jay,
and gateways
to the Land of the Fae,
the strong fallen trunk
perfectly placed
for this Human who comes at last,
to sit and chat.
These, she says, are gifts
in disguise, that come —
soon — in tree years —
after the trauma
of upheaval.

Her message, to me,
to all of us,
is to flourish
despite age or injury.
Rejoice with me, she says.
We are One.
We are eternal.

I ask for a piece
of herself, to hold,
to cherish,
my attention drifting
from budding twig
to dry branch,
easily snapped.

I realize, now,
she has given me
a Willow Wand,
for ritual and magic,
capable of fire,
and so much more.
Yes, I say.
Yes.