Willows lean over the levee, wrapping green mist;
the days grow long — they rise and rest and rise again;
purple swallows cross and cross in scattered dances,
graceful in the wind, asking to be admired.
The verse is a levee of willows wrapped in green mist — nothing straining, everything growing. The willow rises and rests and rises again; the swallows dance because flight is easy in this wind. Like the emperor whose best decisions were made walking slowly under the willows, you are in a season that grows on its own: forcing it would break what is rooting below the surface. Water gently and let the season do the lifting.
“Graceful in the wind, asking to be admired” — love this season wants low pressure, not high effort: warmth grows fastest where nothing is being forced. What forms gently this month roots deeper than anything strained into being — let the swallows dance; do not choreograph them.
“The days grow long — they rise and rest and rise again” — money arrives the way the willow grows: unglamorous, reliable, quietly compounding. The spectacular play is not where this season pays; the boring stream is. Let the steady inflow run, and do not apologize for how plain it looks.
“Purple swallows cross and cross in scattered dances” — presence beats heroics in this verse: the swallow earns its place by returning every day, not by one dramatic flight. Consistency is the currency this season trades in — be the calm contributor the room wants back tomorrow.
Drop one unnecessary push this week and watch what survives without it.
