Yard Sale of Thoughts

The willow is not worried
by what’s been done to the dirt,
for all past wrongs lie buried—
aeration doesn’t hurt.

The holes dug so precisely,
measured distance, skillful depth,
by maiden prodding nicely,
hands both focused and adept.

Sure, trees branch ever upwards,
ramify both wide and round.
Any who seek solitude
will find shadows on the ground.

But flowers live in cycles,
birthed from tiny, dormant seeds.
Beauty sprouts on arrival,
if tended from the weeds.

Th willow wears her sweater,
points her pom-poms towards the sky
to shepherd spring’s revival,
what left will once again arrive.

©2025|K.F.Hartless

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