Behind the Willows

Behind the willows growing in the dampened garden of my conscience,

a vast emptiness radiates black spring light, glowing into nothingness

a void of confusions and thoughts

a plain of loves and dreams

all tangled in a big black hole

pressured and pulled together

like a throbbing migraine.

 

Sometimes, I crawl at night, through the tall sleeping weeds,

driven by the seclusion it possesses, the mystery, the awe

but it is lonely in the garden, the dew leaving unpleasant traces of the past on scratched knees alike.

In the moonless sky, an even light shines from above,

illuminating the garden and nothing else, the willows watching from the edges, half lit, halfway stepping into space

as the darkness of hope, this enormous emptiness of relapse, waits without a sigh.

 

The gate is always open wide, no RSVP’s required,

as a single guest attends each time,

but I am not alone

the neighbors have their own garden of troubles

full of scorched ground, dry soil, dead worms

and their neighbours too

and the folk sleeping on the cracks of the heated summer pavement

has one of equal size

not for sale.

 

This void is now a friend of mine,

nothing you throw into it will keep it away,

unless you throw yourself.

It does not make bargains. Yard sales don’t exist.

Embrace it, with arms wide open into the infinity it propels.

 

Beyond the willows of my garden

I dare not go

a day will come, when the trees will bow

and I will see it’s eyes,

my new friend’s face.

 

But for the moment,

a modest glimpse is just enough

as my tired hand slips over the entrance,

yet again leaving the lonely gate unlocked.

 

Marek Birner – August 2, 2013.