weeping willow
a grieving poem on aging . . .
Oh, sweet self
How the crows have landed
Amongst the eyes that have seen too much
Lines against smiles
Crevices on mind
Skin loosens
Body tires
The skipping stones have arisen
Your aging
But gracefully like a loose fall leaf in the autumn sky
Tossed to and fro in God’s encompassing wind that flys and flys
Grieving what you never had
Longing for time elapse
To go back
With knowing what you know now
You watch screenplays
That make you replay
With tears of longing a renewed old way
Goodbye to the could have been that made you go chasing
Goodbye attention seeking by flirts and low skirts
Goodbye loud beats that roared a false un-defeat
Goodbye where’s waldo in the sea of all kinds of people
Goodbye eyes agazed that blazed from insecure soul and skin
In reality, these were just grasping of the wind
Oh, sweet self
What you carried
What you buried
Oh, what a weeping willow it will produce
Allowing shade, for the parched
Knowledge, for the unknowing
Empathy, for the lonely
And love, for them, for you, for Him
So weep, sweet one, weep
He will catch and create branches out of these
And you will learn that it is okay to, just be
Scripture Inspiration: Ecclesiastes 2:10-11, Proverbs 31:30, and Romans 8:28 
Art created as I read . . .
I have a dear friend out here on Substack who painted this watercolor as I read her this poem. Her name is Clairefully and she has the most beautiful heart for the Lord and others! If I were you, I would check out her substack!
You might also like . . .
An article by Jillian Kondamudi titled, “The Gift of Time: What Our Aging Bodies Tell Us.” It’s worth a read indeed!
Thoughts . . .
I would love to know how this poem spoke to you. Feel free to comment. Blessings beautiful ones 🖤
Photo Recognition: First weeping willow by Warren Griffiths on Unsplash. Second weeping willow by Zhenya on Unsplash. Thank You!
I love that artwork!! So talented!!
I was immediately drawn to the piece because of the title, friend.
*Grieving: A Poem on Aging.*
You had me right there.
Being on this side of fifty myself, I know the gray hairs. I know the white showing up in the beard. I know the bones that ache a little longer than they used to. There is a strange thing that happens as we age. We spend so much of our youth looking forward that we never imagine the day we will look back.
As I read, I found myself thinking that this isn't really a poem about aging. It is a poem about surrender.
The lines about grieving what you never had and wishing you could go back with the knowledge you possess now landed deeply for me. There is a particular grief that comes with maturity. Not simply grief over mistakes, but grief over possibilities. The roads not taken. The things we thought would happen that never did. The versions of ourselves we imagined becoming.
Then you move into all those goodbyes.
What struck me was that each goodbye seemed to be releasing an old way of searching for worth. Attention. Validation. Being noticed. Being admired. Being chosen.
And then this line:
> "In reality, these were just grasping of the wind"
I actually stopped there for a moment.
Because isn't that what so much of life feels like in retrospect? We spend years chasing things that promise substance only to discover they dissolve when we finally catch them.
What moved me most, however, was where the poem ends.
The image of the weeping willow is beautiful.
The tears are not wasted.
The things carried.
The things buried.
The things grieved.
They become roots.
And from those roots comes shade for the weary, empathy for the lonely, wisdom for those still trying to find their way.
As I sat with that image, I found myself thinking that youth wants fruit, but age begins to understand the value of shade.
When we are young, we want to accomplish. As we grow older, we begin to care more about whether someone can rest beneath the branches our lives have grown.
And then those final words:
> "And you will learn that it is okay to, just be"
That felt like the destination of the entire poem.
Not striving.
Not proving.
Not chasing.
Just being.
Thank you for sharing this, friend. It felt less like reading a poem and more like sitting beside someone who has walked a long road and is finally making peace with the journey.