By Elaine Barden

If not for this willow
against the sky today,
I'd still not know that
the bark of trees has
been too long unsung.

Startling, what suddenly
I'm seeing.  So early for
a willow to be misting into
leaf, tricked by a February
that's felt like May.  Today,
the tree's leafing mist must
confront, sway with, this wind
too impatient to wait for March.

My sight--it's stunned by
this sky, so brazen blue
it's hurting my eyes.
Something's needed--to
mediate, between a searing
heaven and the willow's
timid greening; to stop
that blue attitude from
freezing the tree's will to
bud.  The noon sun's no
help; in fact, it's fueling
this sky's engine.  Yet

tentative leaves aren't
being burned away; aren't
caused to cower beneath
their broken husks, because
bark, the tall willow's skin,
a neutrality, dun-colored
camouflage, chameleon,
naked of showmanship,
can stand up quietly against
the sky; siphon its brilliance
into balance with all it
beckons out of earth.

Attention should be given
to bark; to the people who--
in intimate moments or public;
in domestic partnerships, or
corporate; in families or
nations--serve us as bark,
maintaining, with minimal
drama, precarious balances.

Attention should be paid to
these persons, around whom
liminal events, large and small,
quietly evolve, as chamber music
only seems to play without a
conductor.  As we know the
worth of bark, let us know the
worth of those souls who go
unnoticed in crowds, but who
generate in us the intentions
to respect; to love; that holds us
in our lives; that buy us time.