Which Willow?

Which Willow?


That willow,  of course.  Made of all the blue pencils in the box
- of which there were five.

Done over several days and nights
when days and nights were spent this way
- could be spent this way -
and were.

Her pointillist willow
- made of Ultramarine for the full rich body
strand after strand, like braids made of particles,
and Paynes Gray
(spelled with an 'a')- there
where the branches scraped, in dots, unsure or tender,
against the Cerulean dotted grass.
Sky Blue, I think it was called, for the highlights,
the top, arching leaves where the sky blue moon hit it
in a dour Navy dotted sky.

And that was all
All the blues there were

Enough to make the gentle eyelets of the willow
bend, shimmering, towards earth
- some negotiable, dotted plane
that couldn't last
because the paper
was pulp, colored - baby blue.
Meant to be brief, outgrown,
and was.

And that was all.
All the blues there were.
Enough to speak of gifts
and time enough to let them speak
in dots, in blues
- just five.

That was all we had.
That was enough
for that willow, dabbled
- delicately -
there
and then.