Under
the willow where
the falling pollen
powdered your face
I think of the first
wind that blew
on the first willow
by this lake
the air
scarcely swayed
the stamens as it passed
but that pollen-touch
a billion winds ago
sired the shade
of our desperate
brief embrace
that first
tree never cared
where the wanton
wind had gone
nor does this now
remember her ghostly father
as she feeds
on her mother's mould
how much kinder than lovers
do they meet and part
in the green-blood world