The willow does not ask what it is.
It does not lament things not done
nor worry about what it should do.
It stands in brilliant autumn yellow
tinged orange by the darkening of the world.
Soon night will come
and the willow will be
a darkness in darkness.
It will go about its business of oxygen and owls
and the slowing of its rhythms towards winter.
And then, all winter long, it will do nothing.
It will not mourn summer.
It will not desire spring.
It will be
in the being of itself,