Under the willow roots
A skeleton lays, looking up,
Wondering what it means
That he cannot be known.
All the living things
Above the surface earth
Perceive their present moments
Unaware of what’s below.
An impaled heart
Over which the willow weeps,
And dusty bones
Snuggled firmly in the dirt.
Unbroken silence,
The tree’s buried shelter
For secrets of its regions
That no one could know.
Dirt for the dead,
Commotion for the living,
Hollowness to follow,
Vacancy of thought.
Lovers, ash to dust,
Marrow is to bark.
Love without a light
To illumine what they are.