I am no painter, I don’t claim to be. The solace I find In blowing branches And flittering leaves Draws me in, Spits me out, and Brings me treedom.
As the child weeps, Sorrow seeps. The willow, its muse. Nothing ahead. Nothing behind. An empty abyss Swirling around. One heartbeat found Frozen. In sorrow, As the child weeps.