Oh my pillow pussy
willow, said the Widow
Wyile, the birds are building
nests in which their young
shall rest on fluffs of my genius
hair and tufts of foxes’ fur caught
up amid brambles and vines
Oh how brightly yellow shine
the dancing willow branches swept
in the sweet warming air
the many soft caps
on their cousins make me
spring and spin crouch
and sing beneath a tree
this rhyme of mine can not
quite match this mood that’s
hatched all because
I’ve thought of a pillow
of pussy willow to rest upon
when the peepers
practice their evening song