for E.B.

you might mistake these willows

for dancers

their hips bent provocatively

into the tall grass

enjoying their own voluptuous shapes

floating on the lively surface of the stream

this grove of willows

turns in on itself

like a circle of women at their own kitchen party:

the young one bending away from the group

but still swaying to the same beat

the two lovers, quiet, parallel,

shifting positions within the group

the older, heavy-limbed one

who’s been dancing like this for decades

their light green leaves

like hands waving free

these willows are not weeping

they are reaching out in ecstasy