To an Adolescent Weeping Willow

I don't know what you think you're doing,

sweeping the ground. You

do it so easily, backhanded, forehanded.

You hardly bend. Really, you sway.

What can it mean

when a thing is so easy?

I threw dirt on my father's floor.

Not dirt, but a chopped green

dirt which picked up dirt.

I pushed the push broom.

I oiled the wooden floor of the store.

He bent over and lifted the coal

into the coal stove. With the back of the shovel

he came down on the rat just topping the bin

and into the fire.

What do you think?—Did he sway?

Did he kiss a rock for luck?

Did he soak up water

and climb into light and turn and turn?

Did he weep and weep in the yard?

Yes, I think he did. Yes,

now I think he did.

So, Willow, you come sweep my floor.

I have no store.

I have a yard. A big yard.

I have a song to weep.

I have a cry.

You who rose up from the dirt,

because I put you there

and like to walk my head in under

your earliest feathery branches—

what can it mean

when a thing is so easy?

It means you are a boy.