I find myself wishing fiercely
for the wolf willows to open their yellow flowers
and fill the air with their cloying sultry fragrance.
But I am trying to sweep wishes
out of my list of words
their passive waiting,
irritating and cowardly
As much as I love the way
a wish sails through ones teeth
and over the lips like a simple breath of possibilities.
This place was not a wish
Love is not a wish
The river pulling my seeking feet to her ravaged banks
was not a wish
Instead I lie still in blankets of cheery white and wild strawberry flowers
watch the honey bees pack their tiny baskets full of dandelion pollen
until they are so weighted and heavy
that their getting off the yellow flowers and into the air
seems like it too might be a wish
And I stroke the silvery leaves of the willows
Breathing in the bravery of patience
Trust
