Willow

The next-door neighbors had

a willow tree,

tiny spring green leaves

cascading down to earth.

I would walk under the branches,

sun shining green

through the curtains of leaves,

dappling my face, my arms,

a breeze floating

shadow dancers,

my body receiving them,

feeling chiaroscuro

more vividly than Rembrandt,

Vivaldi singing spring through

my veins, the tender branches

drifting, swaying to the song

in my soul, the changing

rhythm

defying jazz, telling Picasso

to do something new,

daring the world

to reduce me to art.