How the Family Found Their Grief

author’s note:

Maybe my family should’ve sung together.  We might have learned harmony.


HOW THE FAMILY FOUND THEIR GRIEF

In the backyard of the old house
the willow tree grieved
all day, all night long.

But inside the house
the family sang happy songs.
Sometimes all day, all night long.

Their music lightened many hearts.

But while they played
the willow weeped—
its thin leaves drifted down
to the ground—
one after the other—
until only a skeleton of bare limbs remained.

Finally the family noticed something wrong.
That tree had been in their family for decades.

By allowing the willow to die
the family felt they’d failed
a long line of ancestors
who’d worked so hard
just so future generations
could relax in a backyard
with a weeping willow tree.

They grieved for all those they’d disrespected—
past and future.
They grieved for the willow
and felt so ashamed of themselves—

their indifference now seemed monstrous.

A wave slowly rose to choke their throats
and they all began to weep.
Strings of tears like tiny black pearls—
tiny black pearls streaming all the way to the floor.
A pile of black pearls in the center of the living room floor.
They’d resurrected family grief buried for years.

Now, when we hear them
we not only hear dawn
we also hear twilight.
Now, we not only hear birth
we also hear death.
Now, we not only hear happiness
we also hear the beginnings of joy.

Yes, the willow tree is still dead.
But at least a lesson was learned.

How Can I Live In This World?: poetry book
dream steps blog
myth steps blog
you tube channel
© 2026, Michael R. Patton

The Magic of Imagination

author’s note:

Written after watching the 2019 documentary The Seer and The Unseen.


THE MAGIC OF IMAGINATION

One long-time resident
can actually see the legendary elves
who inhabit our island.

This woman especially enjoys
a quaint village she recently found
in a shadowy stand of oak
between two little knolls.

Yes, I believe her stories
because I can see the shine in her eyes
when she tells how she frolics with them
in a secret forest clearing.
They like to play fifes
and ring tiny tinny bells
as they skip about
in red shoes that curl at the tip of the toe.

I want to see as she sees.
Yes, I find beauty all over the forest
nonetheless
I’d still like to see an elf do its dance.

But until I’m able to defog my eyes
I’ll try to satisfy my wish
vicariously
by imagining her loving descriptions as fact.
No, I haven’t quite eliminated doubt yet, but
the response in my heart says:
if you can feel the magic, the magic must be real.

How Can I Live In This World?: poetry book
dream steps blog
myth steps blog
you tube channel
© 2026, Michael R. Patton

A Wise One Tells Me How to Become a Wise One

author’s note:

A poem for our dusty, stormy times.


A WISE ONE TELLS ME HOW TO BECOME A WISE ONE

When I decided I’d like to someday be
one of the wise elders of our village
I asked one of the wisest of the wise
what I could do
to get from where I was
to where they were.

How were they able to stay so clear
when those mad winds blinded
the rest of us with dust?
How were they able to stay so buoyant
when that merciless storm flooded
our village homes and farms?

She answered me then
with the watery gray eyes of gentle age:

"Inside your head the dust swirls
 dimming the light of reason.
 Inside your heart a storm rages—
 your love may drown in the deluge."

The wise one then bowed to me
and said no more
because nothing more needed to be said.

I now saw how
those elders could manage so well
during windstorms and thunderstorms.
And knowing myself as I do
I doubted I could ever be as they are.

But I also I knew
I’d keep trying
because

I need to be a lot wiser
if I am to survive the dust and the flood.

How Can I Live In This World?: poetry book
dream steps blog
myth steps blog
you tube channel
© 2026, Michael R. Patton