I didn’t know they were
spring’s first harbingers,
soft grey and spindly
on March’s flat backdrop.
They grew near a stream
running beside our parish.
Species: salix discolor.
Each velvety gray pith
insulating a softer bud
sealed within till spring,
lithe limbs outstretched,
dotted mini paw pads.
I didn’t know then they were
my mother’s favorite.
As Dad pulled the car
into the parish lot one Sunday,
I unbuckled, pushed forward
cracked the window, mouth
pushed through like a fish
at a pond’s surface, pressed out:
Good morning, Pissy Willows!
Then:
finches’ warblings
fell silent.
Sisters’ titters
crescendoed.
The first of
my many malaprops.
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