“Cooing of Willow”
poem written by Ben Bussewitz
in a incipient percipience of a head full of wind bells,
the elephant tusk horn wrought about a heart full of
thanksgiving shipments to the world up above,
time to everlasting in a form made anew, waiting for the love
to render beauty in her truest form, down to the core,
a blissful state for her and a continuously laden spoonful
that must be sipped down more and more,
along for the windmill to catch on to second glance,
and sheltering each other in a nod of time and chance,
in the shelter delight of their eye spying alas and thrones,
their bodies were still unborn in the born again song of the poor,
in a song full of honey, in a winding lane, through the yellow canopy,
to the kayaks by the river, through the rustling, hustling, blue storms
they sail, ready for their shingles, thanking God he overcame his hanging
from the group of elders that cry for no tomorrow, say peace to the children,
their hearts full of sorrow, and the throngs full of gladness, through harp tree
fully-lit lane where the wise men shepherd soft to the nearby cooing of willow.
