Weeping Willow

I’m six hours in the future,

timezone-wise.

The grass here is vibrant, 

echoes of life and care.

The river hums beside me.

A ring I bought in London is sinking there;

it kept turning my finger blue.

The air tastes of waffles and tourism.

Halfway through the garden a sign reads:

Schietwilg — Salix alba —Wilgenfamilie,

a plaque introducing an array of trees 

lined alongside me like a firing squad.

Small trunks extend to twelve feet in height,

then patches of dirt sit where the 

branches should sprout,

and another smaller tree sits on top of it.

I got into Emory with an essay about

how well trees coexist. People, not so much.

How stems are the best patriots,

though they don’t have much of a choice.

These trees live not only with one another

but between one another,

roots twisted in their stems,

plunging forever into the Earth.

In class, a girl who didn’t like me once wrote

“Things can not exist intertwined.”

But here they are, wrapped within their woes,

simple as they stretch to the sky.

What I wouldn’t give to see her face now.