Willow

The willow of your child-
hood: did you confuse it with 

the weeping bottlebrush,
its masses of drooping red 

inflorescence, its clustered
filaments flushed with the orange

of pollen? There too, the subject
is that old war between beauty

and domesticity, a nation 
of girls taught to leave 

no signature on furniture but for 
the sheen of wax applied with a bit 

of rag. And that adjective, 
that bit about weeping: not 

the good, cleansing tears leading 
to weightless joy; not even 

the rhinestone variety of afternoon 
soap operas, but real weeping. 

Which means childhood was never 
a tranquil pond fringed with red 

or mauve or yellow, only ring upon 
ring of soft green tethers.