Willow Whistle

By John I. Blair

In spring the sand-bar willows
Sprout lanceolate leaves
And comfort all the creeks
With misty green.

From this-year growth
My Dad would cut
An eight-inch chunk of stem,
Tap the bark along its length
Until it slipped away intact,
Slice a strip,
Then shape a notch.

The bark slid back in place,
He’d coax a piercing note
By blowing softly in the end.

On this reflective day
I remember his warm breath,
His careful hands, his need
To share this craft,
This beauty with his sons,
Although he was so deaf
He barely heard the sound.

©2007 John I. Blair