Mid-March
the creekside willows
sport the latest crop
of catkins
pussies stippled
with yellow pollen
although some by now
have turned to silver grey

They look
for all the world
like furry caterpillers
clinging to the thinnest
branch tips
glowing in the sunlight
bright against the dark blue
of the sky seen
through the web
of overarching alders

The way they catch
the light makes haloed
angels of the willows
fairy spirits charged with watching
over the spring creek
and over us folk
who are only
passing by