The willow in the back yard
the one I would watch from my window
when the wind whooshed the branches
the one I would swing from,
would shout my joy from,
is dead
is gone
the shade on the dew-soaked grass
is gone.
the cool in the hot sun
is gone.
there is now only sandy soil
there is now only a crumbling stump.
The remains of that which I remember.
The last pieces of that which I loved.
Poems by Ken 