The willows beside the river
are practicing how to let go—
they lose the bright red hue
of their skin and their leaves
turn brittle and brown.
It would be easy to think
they were dead if all I did
was pass them by. But
bend one willow, and it’s clear
how alive they still are,
flexible and sincere.
How little rest I allow myself.
I insist on my own evergreen.
How much could I learn
from November’s willows
that take a break from living?
I listen, as if the willows
might offer a teaching.
I listen until it dawns in me,
that the quiet
is the teaching.