Here in the willows of our glen
Today's Arbor Day. So we revisit a poem, below, from Peter Coe Verbica that celebrates the friendly, ever-fluttering trees of San Jose's Willow Glen. You’ll hear rustling leaves, horse hooves, and maybe even something more…
Willow Glen
© 2022 by Peter Coe Verbica
Come and take
communion under the clouds.
Close your eyes and
have a quiet conversation
with the caravan of those
who’ve walked here before you.
Let your beard grow
and your skin wrinkle.
Breathe. There’s enough time.
You’re in a gathering of trees,
a glen full of hidden willows.
I won’t tell you that the branches
whisper to each other like ghosts,
or that their leaves
whip in the wind
like marionettes in pale-green dresses.
I won’t tell you to watch
a mother leeching acorn mash
in a woven basket.
I won’t tell you of the hours
which pass through you,
as Spaniards bake adobe bricks,
as apricots sprinkled with sulfur
dry in the sun,
as silk’s ready to be spun.
The marsh here is gone,
wicked from the earth
and that’s just fine.
We need homes, and schools,
and store windows
so that we can peer into our reflections.
But close your eyes and listen.
You’ll hear the hooves of horses,
and a blacksmith’s clanging hammer.
You’ll smell charcoal smoke from the bellows.
And at the end of the afternoon,
when the sun’s about to disappear,
you’ll hear them whispering,
Huddled, leaning towards one another.
The most meaningful of conversations,
here in the willows of our glen.
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