The Willow Tree

"Is it underneath the willow tree that I've been dreaming of?" "Where is Love?" LIONEL BART'S OLIVER!

Sometimes, on these late Autumn days, with an occasional squadron of geese flying in arrow point formation, as he craned his neck to see them, and in his heart, go with them, Oliver thought he was meant to sit here under the willow tree, barren and naked for Fall it was, and be as content as he could be. He sat with his knees drawn up against his chest, his forehead on his knees in his torn jeans, and felt the cold through his poor clothing and his inadequate too thin jacket. He was in love.

Love felt beautiful to Oliver and he wished the lake were closer by for another friend, in addition to the tree, for here after school, he contemplated forever; here he dwelt in no territory other than himself; he was not a weak small kid here; he was tall enough to touch the sun; strong enough to move the Earth; he was not a boy with shaggy hair, for price was too dear; he was a boy of melancholy and dreams and he was in love.

He was not glum; indeed, he was wide-eyed and everything seemed a miracle; breathing for one thing; the feel of his heart beating, for another; he loved looking at the stars at night; he even loved school, because he was good at his classes, and if he smiled little, that did not mean he did not smile inside himself, that he was supremely happy he was here; and Autumn come again, and it was here, as he had waited for it all year long; in decent, Oliver was in ascent; in making fortunes of the future, he was a master at it, and if who he was in love with was wrong, then he did not feel need to call a quorum to pass judgment on his whole being; on the stars inside himself; on the star stuff that made him part of the long, lonely sky.

He scratched his left ear and pulled himself tighter into a ball, for the wind blew cold; it might even snow soon and he smiled at that, really smiled, inside and out; oh give me the sky to fly in and give me eyes that know me above all else in the world; swing my life and bring me to a bright shiny apple of a golden sun and let me hear the words I love you.For Oliver was a boy of perspicacity; he was a boy who knew a sum total can be reached even if one is still very young and the ground round him very brown and very cold and very beautiful, all the cobalt night sinking down and in, all the woods over there bring him to me and let me touch; let me converse not with teachers or parents or even friends distant from me they may be; for he knew when he touched himself at night in his bed; for he knew when the pleasure wrapped round his body and said peaceful joy, that he would find him under that willow tree; that he would find him lost and dissembled; what people may have thought Oliver was, but was not.

The cold corridors of the world dressed in amber sun set today, and he now held his hands to his sides, arms straight out, and imagined the November seas he could be plowing through; the great human ship he was, and big and powerful and strong, not emaciated, not addicted to being only with himself; deep he was and the seas in him were formulation of other continents on other planets; other worlds that were spirals in the loose leaf notebook bindings that said whisper to him and tell him, lean over the forest of wooden chairs in the school room, and say, Joel, I love you and............

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