:: POEM REVISION ::


The Willow
by PJ Kempen


The Willow overgrown
envelops your home
with its blonde, wild maiden-hair
Monolithic
Atop the quiet hill.

Its roots spread out
like your raw, muddy toes
through the cool grass
beneath its canopy.

Stillness
The summer wind embraces you.
Warm silk on bare arms and legs.

Run your hands through the branches.
Grip to feel them pull back.

Hope in secret
that they'll pull you up
and out of context.

Somewhere not bathed
in the sepia fog of childish ignorance
or the neon glare of the imaginary.
 
But you always let go.


-

Peer through the branches.
To glimpse a world outside
hidden, forbidden
worth fighting to see
because you must fight to see it
and you do.

with a child's hands
a mouth filled with words
you flee the quiet hill
to find something more  real.
and you do.

What you find confirms
all of your fears
That all that made sense was pretend
that all you believed in was wrong
that all you despised was law.


-

Now alone
In holy disillusion
If you could but grip
and feel the branches pull back
would you wish them to take you to the quiet hill

to bathe again
in the sepia fog

in the neon glare
under the cool maiden-hair
canopy of the willow?

You always let go.