The Willowy Weaver

Beneath the weeping willow stands,
on tip-toe,
reaching up her hands,
a little girl, alone and sad
feeling bad,
but the harm is done.
The hem of the willow’s gown is gone.

“Woe is me, you beautiful willow tree!
I dressed up in your finery, day in, day out.
You say, there is nothing to worry about?

I think I hear thunder.

Your greenery’s wilted on my arm.
Now you, weeping willow, are as bare as my arm,
your garland ripped and rent and torn.
I feel forlorn.”

Years later, in a distant land
once more under a willow stands
child turned woman.
The child in the woman, knowingly, breaks one little branch.
This time it’s grand.

“Wound ’round my wrist, a charming twine,
again we embrace,
your arm, dear willow, a bracelet for mine.
Ever related we are one fruit,
ancient cell and willow root.”

Thunder growls. The storm breaks free.
Lightning strikes.
How can this be?

Unseeing and blind
stand woman and child.
Time divided – time combined.

At first, the drops fall,
oh, so slight.
Then, steady rain pours through the night.

The heavens cry.

“Dear God above,
What farce is this in the name of love?”

“Mea culpa, maxima culpa!”
The woman beats her chest.
“We stole the willow’s beauty. For vanity we dressed!
We are no better than the boy
who plucked our sweet rose-red.
No wonder lightning searched us out
and hit and struck us dead.

We cut ourselves in pieces,
in woman, man and child,
and kind red-rose.
We quite forgot that we are one.
How could we be so blind?”

To make a point, sweet red-rose says,
“Now, at this point in time,
we are quite dead, you understand, if this is our crime.
There’s only one,
one point in time.
It’s big
as it is small
that neither point nor anyone
can find a point at all.

“Were I a point,” the rose says then,
“though I am dead, I’d live!
Oh, what I would give to know
how and when
and oh, how I would live!

I’d have to believe it,
I suppose,
to achieve it.”

Sun, moon, stars,
the whole wide world
timely into our dreams are hurled.

Again the wind comes ’round to sing:
We brew the brew, success we bring.
The child is the wind’s bride,
the tree’s bride, that is.
The woman’s the child’s bride,
the dream’s bride, what bliss!
We brew the brew; the bride we brew.
You, Mensch, will soon know
what is true.

“Bride and groom, the wedding’s done,”
sings the child.
The willow thinks, “I’ve waited long!”
Hope swells her green streamers,
embues them with charm.
They caress the woman’s trembling arm.
And woman and child and willow are one.
Of times and places remain none.

The god of time
sees times and places,
child, woman, willow,
red-rose, too – indeed,
and all the animals in great need-
as brushes for painting
that he invented
to paint his world view
in hours rented.

How did he?
With words and with thought.
Hours are ours.
We stood them too long.
Thoughts fly without landing
though they are strong.
The picture’s too large to fit the frame.
Who comprehends?
Who’s to blame?

We all invented our own time and space.
My words and rhyme race through the world’s soul
for we’re connected, and ever whole.

The rose says,
“It’s time.
I’ll live – though I die.”
As point in the whole,
still whole, comes to earth.
Earth, ocean, winds, they celebrate.
There’s love ’round the earth child.
And wait! There is light!

Is this a dream? How can it be?
Out in the green fields the child plants a tree.

We humans belong into All That Is.
As weavers we weave ourselves in.

What’s good for nature
is good for us.
If it wins
we win.

‘Will’
is like wool.
Without wool
there’s no weaving.
We do have to want to
if we’re to achieve.
But free will is generously given
so that weavers and weavers’ weavers
can weave.

1993 English version of a ballad on the occasion of Earth Day on April 22, 1990, entitled, Der Weidliche Weber by its author
Ute Kaboolian