Where walk the willows,
Under the sapphire sky?
Along what cracked stones have their roots travelled?
What maps do they make along their lonely ways,
Amid the eddies of streams and the banks of the rivers?
And we half-men, with our bustle and bluster,
Do not see them. And past the trees we stampede.
Beating breasts, calling for more. Demanding salvation,
Whatever the price. Our jangly lives are a torrent,
Driving us along, out of sight of the shore.
Where dance the willows,
Amid the soaring eagles and eager swifts?
Down around shallows and reeds,
They play. Such nakedness they share,
Exposed to the storms, boughs sweeping, beckoning, as if in welcome.
Within such tempests we do shake,
Frail and unfettered. We stand exposed and free to move, and so
Ever moving. What rage fuels our moving? What fear?
And after these or any headwaters still fail to pronounce us clean,
Where next are we to go but on?
***
Where whisper the willows,
As if chaff against the breeze?
Such ornaments their voices make,
But what shape do they take without the hearing? They share
No promises of peace or of happiness or of relief,
Only of the here and the now.
Would that I were noticed
As I scratch and bang among the crimson light of dusk.
Such cries as I can muster stand as the only marks I have made,
But not enough. Where is my mark upon the land, upon the heavens,
Upon the face of salvation itself?
Where sing the willows,
In the milky-blue light of dawn?
Such joy might they find among the lost and stolen moments,
The moments they consume until, as if drunk upon the mist,
Lay down their merrymaking being full and sated and bright.
Such mothers’ sons are we who labor
Beneath the fog-filled mountains. Where now are your homes?
Do morning bells awaken you, compelling you to rise,
To make labor upon the day? Does evening singing greet us,
Welcoming us home, enticing us to add our voices to the din?
***
Where sleep the willows,
In the moist and muted darkness of the night?
How fragile are shoots and vines, roots and rods,
That they use to dip and grow, seeking and extending. In slumber,
They rest and rock and anchor, as craters fill and cold mountains stand.
And still, what fresh nightmares must I produce?
For I am all that remains, pocked and gnawed
Down to the weeping stump. But still
On and on and on I sleep, and flail, restless.
Such rough sleep do I demand, and so the self endures.
Where dream the willows,
Under the whole light of the half-moon?
Tonight it is shiny and sweet. Tonight
Around the celesta they gather, arm in arm,
Roots embedded, limbs ensnared in the sky.
What hope have we
Of ever being whole-men
With full bellies, full hands, full hearts?
What promise have we held, what secret given?
Of being wise, of being free, of being unafraid?
Woe now to those who are waiting,
Who are blind and deaf and numb.
Where shall you find the time, and once found, use it to
Sew the self? Come. Sit. Rest your lightheart
Upon the shore and among the reeds.
***
text © Andy Engel, 2016
