Willows And Dreams

Willows cling to the eroded banks of old men's dreams
with winding memories collapsed on a desert stream.
The verdant fields of youth, once quilted, and plush
Stand lost now unto the coming pallor of silent hush.
Alone to this call come we, alone without fanfare into silent gray.
We whimper and moan as the wind lifts up the warm desert sand
 and we cry out unto the hollow darkness created by solitary man.

Fissures form jags below on the banks of the old river bed,

And the willows which once held fast are now dying and dead.

Our time escapes gently on the frosty breath of passing days,

With our priorities changed to make room for the absence of shame.

Words not said begin to melt on the trappings of the forgotten heart,

and the worlds of yesterday and tomorrow widen and gradually part.

For it is on the morrow of old men’s dreams

that the once vibrant willow somehow clings.

 J. Allen Wilson © Eight 2006