Willow

The ice on the willows fell over you

and I felt snow falling all around.

You reached out in silence and brushed my hands

but I could not walk with you beyond the storm.

The frozen forest held mysteries

that have long lain undiscovered.

I know not what you saw or what you were thinking,

but it's clear that it all disappeared.

Oh, no, a crying shadow,

teardrops and snowflakes stream gently down;

I found you under the icy willow

that night when the forest was your grave.

The sleet and the snowflakes fell under you

and at home, I watched the sun go down.

You marched out in wonder at a beautiful hour

while moonlight was shining from over the hills.

The earthy meadow held beautiful skies

and nightly it blessed us with sparkling stars.

I saw your footsteps fade away from the village

when you dashed out to comfort the moon.

Leave me, I'll watch the horizon

until you return from your journey.

But I found you under the icy willow

that night when the forest was your grave.

The lamp in the window watched over you

and I watched the light flicker all around.

I reached out in silence and touched your hand

to awaken you into a glorious morn.

Our sleepy village knew age and youth,

and mothers, sisters, and brothers.

But you had a wild taste for adventure

and a heart that knew no earthly fear.

Go, go, I can see you grow restless

while the red glow of daybreak fades into blue.

Then I found you under the icy willow

that night when the forest was your grave.

The ice on the willows fell over you

and I felt snow falling all around.

You reached out in silence and brushed my hands

but I could not walk with you beyond the storm.

The frozen forest held mysteries

that have long lain undiscovered.

I know not what you saw or what you were thinking,

but it's clear that it all disappeared.

Oh, no, a crying shadow,

teardrops and snowflakes stream gently down;

I found you under the icy willow

that night when the forest was your grave.

White Ink

The storm began gently,

cooing like some young animal.

Snowflakes silently laid themselves on the ground;

not in protest, but in peace and restfulness

well-deserved after such a long journey.

I too have traveled a while,

making my mark and melting away at dawn,

to leave an empty bed or the ashes

of a campfire behind.

The snowdrifts and ice floes, along

their respective roads and rivers,

tell stories of the storm and how

it came to be.

But what began as flurries soon erupted

into a blizzard. An icy blur smeared

white ink everywhere–

frozen lakes became frozen meadows,

valleys became glaciers, and sight became blindness.

Behind me, my footprints returned to an untouched

slate. My hair changed from black to white,

and my fingers and toes from white to black.

And the stories of the snowdrifts and ice floes

become unwritten again.

They plead to be remembered.

The lacy white calligraphy that sprinkled

and detailed the landscape grew into a flood,

a massive spill of wordless, blank ink that

obscured what surely was a grand and

compelling narrative.

I too have felt the icy chill wash over me

and erase me, and while I was purified by clean

crystals of water, I was purged.

The white ink still coated my sight when I awoke,

but I found that it was not snow. No,

it was the walls of a place where the fallen cannot stand,

the standing may not wander, and where the stories

may not escape.