The Willow Tree

The mother lifts her child up to the light.

Beside the path, where
I wandered, there grew
the crocuses, gold and lilac—
early morn had invited them
and not hindered their bud,
they called me mother...
A bloom under
the willow bent with years.

Where the knarled branches
lift us to paradise,
closer to the sun and moon,
high in their ethereal limbs,
I let my child climb—
youthful and questioning
of nature’s realms and heaven’s glory,
of the rising from decay.

Emily Isaacson

No comments: