Winter Willow

What’s not considered virtuous
Always slides sideways into vice—

Anywhere where people are rare
Visitors, I like being there.

I like being light, easy
To float away on a breeze,

And then I see tumbleweeds
Blown up against barbed wire, trapped,

And I think, maybe better
To find a patch of pasture,

Root down and risk exposure,
Anywhere beside a creek,

Or anyplace halfway green,
And stay there, if I can stay,

Even if it means winter—
Not my vice, if I can’t leave.