by Shome Dasgupta
He is a weeping willow, never cries but sways in wind, a ghost chained to soils without nutrients. I have scissors, though, and one day when I trip into him I will cut the earth to set him free and he can become one of those ghost town tumble weeds bouncing, smiling. There will be silence—the spectrums of earth will say everything we never did. The marigolds will tilt towards the moon. The moon will look down. The sun will look up—the tides will reach for its warmth. The stars will clink, clank, and the clouds will cushion his fall. He will see blue and green and I will see purple and orange, he will see brown, I will see pink. We will see red and grey and the swirls of a Van Gogh dripping onto our skin. He will not look at me because he does not know about the purposes of eyes other than to close them when it is bright or dark. I will say, “Look at me,” and he will roll along the surface of the world until gravity tires—to the sky, his bed, he will open his eyes. I will float with the roots of an oak, grasping for branch or leaf.