Illustration by Blair Thornley

The willow swept the roof
as I lay in bed on winter nights
and tried to think of something
else besides the willow falling
in the dark and crushing me
in my sleep, which is what
I also dreamed night after night,
although I'd wake in time to escape
its fall, then fall back to sleep,
still worrying, however, that the tree
might fall in a sudden squall or lose
its grip on the shallow earth.
Why worry? I thought. Lightning could also
strike and smite the house. But I did,
especially since the tree had begun
to lean, as well as crack at the middle.
"I'd cut it down," I said to the dark
the night it fell, "if it weren't for
its sweeping my dreams translate
into the speech of a human's voice.
I am the danger that's wed to beauty.
I am the overstory with a thousand endings.