Willow’s Perch, poetry by Eli Garcia at Spillwords.com
Alfred Kenneally

Willow’s Perch

Willow’s Perch

written by: Eli Garcia

 

Granite crack, canyon deep,
Willow’s perch, narrow sweep.

Branches ring, chatter friends,
ring with song from egg ‘til end.

Cackle riot, chase and call,
she the center, loves them all.

Tiny nests, twig and moss,
countless lives, lived and lost.

And something missing casts a pall,
something, missing, a piece of all.

Swish and sweep, lean and leap,
to spy another, a wish cut deep.

Share her rain, share her sun,
in this place, room for one.

Joy casts light, shadows, sorrow,
alone today, alone tomorrow.

Green and brown, seasons whirl,
green again, dry and curl.

Much to say, naught to speak,
tiny jut, valley peak.

Comes an end, story final,
fleeting friends mourn a while.

Nest and shell, come and go,
she stands tall, hollow though.

Branches crumble, seeds atumble,
far below her mortal jumble.

Down the cliff and down the slope,
far, far, below, the willow’s hope.

Comes to rest below the ferns,
long forgotten, silent yearn.

Until one day the skies turn gray,
darken, shatter, tear away.

Flash of thunder, crash of light,
press the land with all their might.

Gust and whistle, scream and pierce,
twist and lash, soft and fierce.

Land a flood, sky awhirl,
things crash down, rivers drown.

In one canyon, old roots cling,
one of many, here’s a thing.

Buried hope, bob and float,
come to rest, tiny mote.

Rain and sun, rot and molder,
fertile cradle gently holds her.

Perched on one who did not speak,
life anew, to scratch, to eke.

Head raised, playful, casts about,
finds she twines another sprout.

Tangled stand, sweep and sway,
gather joy, chirp and play.

Crowded, twisted, thicket wood,
bursts with life, and life is good.

Buried center, old dead heap,
she, the center, anchored deep.

Room for one, this spike of land,
on that one, two now stand.

Eli Garcia

Eli Garcia

I live reluctantly in Southern California where I alternately celebrate and dread the slow but constant change that becomes so much more pronounced in my life the older I get. My family includes my wife, who is my light and my storm, and my new daughter, who continues to surprise me daily with both her existence and her ability to stretch my capacity for love, and for terror, into previously unimagined territory. I occasionally garden, which I’ve learned to treat as a study in controlled chaos, only without the control. So, my life, like most, is generally full of hopes and dreams, successes and failures, aspirations, trial and error, peeves, inspiration, ignoring of mortality, doing stuff, not doing stuff, and occasionally standing in the backyard gobbling radish pods off the bush with my very excited toddler. A pebble on a beach with billions of other pebbles. Sometimes I write.
Eli Garcia

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