Every year the pussy willows
surprise me with their willingness
to be soft in a time when the rest
of the world is stick-ish and harsh and bare.
There they are beside the low stream,
fluffy silver tufts, furry, silken, new.
But the velvet has purpose: protective hairs
grown to guard an imminent bloom.
I notice today how fear is like
the stiff casing from which the pussy willows
have emerged—necessary for a time,
until the tough shell no longer fits.
Sometimes softness is the key to survival.
I feel it today in myself—the courage
to shed what is hardened and old.
It grows wild as willows inside us: practical hope.
