October 15: Wind in the willow

With each gust

willow boughs reaching

across the window—

January 3: Weeping

Leaving branches

all over the driveway--

willow tree protests winter.

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November 16: Fallen tree

After the tree falls
chickadees return to perch,
a new perspective.

November 8: Election Day

Winter moths at the porch light.

Shining through the weeping willow

waxing half moon.

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February 6: Life imitating art

One of my favorite art genres is the 19th century Japanese woodblock print (ukiyo-e). Shoveling out after this latest in a long series of generous snowstorms, I was surprised to find I still possess any capacity for finding beauty in this absurdly snowy landscape.

A Japanese print--
snow-laden willow arching
over my driveway.

January 9: Another frigid morning

Branches scattered
across fresh snow--
even the willow's had enough.

April 26: Willow

This morning as I was walking into a meeting, these two willows were shining in the early light, emanating that incandescent glow of spring leaves. I thought of long, golden tresses and Rapunzel. I thought of how when I was a kid, a willow bough made the best "whip" to use when I pretended I was a horse. The willow tree image that used to be carved in old gravestones came to mind, and I wondered how such a glorious tree came to have such a melancholy association. Weeping willows--why not shining hair willows? The Joan Armatrading song "Willow" began playing on my "head radio": "I'll be your shelter in a storm, I'll be your willow, your willow..." and I wondered how much shelter a willow really provides. The willow next door flings its branches all over our yard whenever there's wind, and one of its larger branches actually wiped out our neighbor's power line in a big storm last year. But these trees, they inspired me to dig out my camera, take a photo. And then I went into my meeting.

Arboreal muse,
no wonder your boughs hang down--
poetic baggage.

December 10: Willow Wands

Yesterday's storm winds whipped tree branches all over our yard. The big willow next door, which already lost a big branch last winter, tossed little golden-barked wands all over the snowy front lawn.

Willows have always been associated with water. The weeping willow (often carved on old gravestones) makes us think of tears, of course, and willows generally live near water sources. This willow must have sucked up a lot of river water in its time (in addition to bursting our underground water pipe--but that's a story I'd rather not dwell on), so it carries a bit of the river's spirit in its veins. Despite several dams, the river is a wild thing, as is this willow, though planted many years ago by my neighbor.

So what to make of all these wands strewn across my lawn? What kind of magic do they possess? Was this some kind of throw-down by Old Man Willow? Or have they woven a protective spell on our little house? With wild magic, things can go either way.

Storm-strewn willow withes
weave their magic on my lawn,
wild as the river.