Whisk us under the weeping willow.
We hid ourselves underground.
Our roots were long, but the days were longer.
Searching vastly, but never further down…
As I dug, there was simply no depth to be found.
All was gone.
Enfeebling thoughts causing untimely wrinkles.
Deep burrows, like the bark of an elder maple.
I have found its depth, through the creases of my skin.
A pedestal made of photographs, did not halt the wind…
Having skipped over mountains, and danced into shadows.
All is gone.
I commend my mind for having condemned me for so long.
What delusion, to having been so charmed by nothingness.
Perhaps it was the silence, not the stillness that was so captivating.
The dust of another childish thought is cleansed with a gentle breeze.
© Sayer Teller