Yet another morning after yet another rain,
the alley shows the proof of last night’s storm—
the puddles in the gravel, in the pavement’s recesses.
Trees always look greener in the morning.
They suffer the worst in storms,
but somehow manage to recover—taller, stronger.
It takes us longer to find our strength again.
We get back up,
but it can take a while.
Maybe they don’t fight the wind so much.
I watched a willow in a rainstorm once,
its corkscrew trunk held
and let the branches fly,
as though they could disengage,
as if the storm could carry them off
and the willow was content to grow more.
It swayed and shook in defiance,
held its core, screwed secure to the earth,
like the whole planet would have to be dug up
before that willow fell.
Edmonton poets, and writers around Alberta, will know Ellen both for her stalwart admin work with the Writers Guild of Alberta and the Stroll of Poets, and as a strong lyric poet in her own right.
Ellen sent me this poem in response to the recording of Certainty of Trees, and graciously agreed to let me post it here. Here’s to the willow in us all. Image by Manfred Richter on pixabay.com