Gypsy Willow
The name given to me from my elders.
The ones who sanctioned me into this life of the living.
Free spirit in flowing clothing.
No need to know the time, telling it by the changing of the tides and the shifting of the shadows.
Listening to Neil Young and watching the Harvest moon.
It shall soon arrive…as I go back and cruise to another place, another season.
Brown leather jackets, caressed by the the evening light.
Stealing away and capturing forbidden time.
Sitting on bleachers by a park.
The smell of fresh cut grass.
Arms enclasped around me.
Strong arms. Secure yet fragile…so temporary.
As life begins to change and children evolve.
Responsibilities immerse…
Plans are made.
No more sitting on the wooden benches, watching the ribbon of sun light.
Embracing the river’s flow and the wind whispering in the trees. Curled up with a book.
Melodic music and the symphony of birds.
But still the kindred gypsy spirit cries on…seeking those moments, those days when time seems to stand still…and it is just once again the swaying of the willow at dusk.
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