Notes From the Lower Frequencies

  The Weeping Willow Tree By James Sterner   I On nights when fireflies drifted around like The will-o-wisps my grandfather told me About, I’d ride through the park on my bike Til I came to the weeping willow tree. The tree was old—how old I didn’t know, But in my imagination, it seemed As old as time itself, and it would grow Long after I was dead. I dreamed Of cutting into the trunk of the tree: A black hole of deeper and deeper rings That never seemed to end. But I could see That deep within the darkness there were things-- Wet squirming shapes that wanted to get out. Then I’d wake up. On sunsets in the park While riding home, I’d sometimes change my route So I could see it, waiting in the dark. And I waited too, while all the world slept, Half-thinking the tree also was awake. But all was silent while the willow wept Its leafy tears in streams into the lake. For years, I’d follow that routine. I’d ride Until I came to the lakeshore,