Willow-wish

 

Ascending the supple willow branches,

Their leaders bending,

Finger-leaves and spidery lines

Brushing the lower branches and grass beneath them,

You face the ground.

Out on a willow branching,

You feel that supple strength,

Give way, give way.

You never know the chill of danger

Swaying there gently

In the arms of the willow,

Unless an impulse awakes

And reckless,

You swing into space.