The Troubadour

I once was lost. Stood with a hand, like an awning
on my forehead. I looked to the willow for answers.
Its branches bickered: that way, no it was that way,
Unable to agree it stayed steady and confused.

But, at the deepest point of the stream where it curves
into a font, the weeping willow points directly down:
an overexcited dowsing rod wetting its nose, trembling
there, there, it is there: that’s where you want to go.

I followed its arrow advice, on this, the hottest of days:
quickly straddled the stile, left my dress panting where it fell,
watched my white vest dissolve to sugared rice paper, licked
by the streams’ serif tongue I exposed myself to the bank.