Iron & Willow Poem by oio ZIGA

He stands in town like iron—
forged straight, unbending, true;
his oath is hammered flint-spark,
his honor quarried stone.
The wind may circle, storms may lash—
he does not lean, does not bow.

But evening comes, and tiny hands
press question-marks against his chest;
their voices flutter—soft as moths—
around the lantern of his heart.
And something gentle stirs the iron.

So he becomes the willow:
roots sunk deep in purpose,
branches wide with grace.
He trades the clang of certitude
for lullabies of doubt and wonder,
lets moonlight sift through leaves of patience,
bending just enough
for children to climb toward sky.

A good man holds the line;
a good father learns the curve—
where principle and tenderness
meet beneath the stars,
where iron finds its echo
in the quiet strength of wood.