Transfiguration

I am… but metamorphosed, overnight,
into an unweeping willow,
my trunk half-sinking into the
moist soil of your indifference,
untimely spring tingeing my winterbare branches
in hues of brown that still feel
yellow

Shoots grow like stubble on my face,
and new growth, red and orange,
sprouts inwards, every inch gnawing away
the last remains of what I once considered sanity
but which in retrospect
was just another word for
self-deception

Mid-March breezes on my bark
And makes me shudder and bend
like an osier branch,
your snickering reassurance “But I love you!“
echoes though my wicker brain,
oh yes, I know you lie and this
is just your easy way out of
us

But I’m a tree
And I stand still,
What can a tree do?
And I wait for jackdaw days,
trying to cope by humming
with my new and light-green leaves:
“I am… I am… I am…”

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Transfiguration