What is so strange about a tree alone in an open field?

It is a willow tree. I walk around and around it.

My body is strangely torn, and cannot leave it.

At last I sit down beneath it.

It is a willow tree alone in acres of dry corn.

Its leaves are scattered around its trunk, and around me,

Brown now, and speckled with delicate black.

Only the cornstalks now can make a noise.

The sun is cold, burning through the frosty distances of space.

The weeds are frozen to death long ago.

When then do I love to watch

The sun moving on the chill skin of the branches?

The mind has shed leaves alone for years.

It stands apart with small creatures near its roots.

I am happy in this ancient place,

A spot easily caught sight of above the corn,

If I were a young animal ready to turn home at dusk.