In the spring, branches of the willow may dip
into the water like a paintbrush readying the indigo.
Its body reminding you of a girl with round hips
swishing in a grass skirt. Remember? You were a girl
with no certainty, but the path along the south end
of the river, the tree’s curved and knotted trunk. Each
branch making a new world. You think time is linear.
You think there is only one path and it is the one
you are not yet walking.

But say you visited again. Saw the ducks, slicked
emerald, bow their heads into the water. Suppose
the snow melted. Buds came back. Could you
be content though you have not arrived anywhere
you haven’t already been? The girl you were, long
gone. The daffodil bulbs planted by the gardener will
surprise you after all this time, when you’ve forgotten
something can go dormant so many seasons
and live.