The willow is weeping, as silent as the star,

Arms of twisted leaves reaching for rocky waves of earth.

It sobs and it cries swaying with the breeze its heart so far-

Slumps and hunches, as it hides a secret in girth,

A hideaway stored, that the willow cradles like a child, 

Single room of secret solitude made for the exiled.

Curtains of feathers, green like the serpent, 

Another trickster, only this one is a crybaby.

It watches, forever in musing wonder, the owl ever observant-

The tree is a haunted warrior, strong but broken maybe.

After seeing their brethren fall and decay like a rose

All that’s left for the spectral heart is to quietly oppose.

Stoic is the willow, defiant, born anew,

Alone, its left to ponder, as shadows rise with dawn-

Broken silence, the willow wailed, “Too long have I stood, if only they knew,

As I, the willow, watch the joyful fawn-

Dance like the gale, envy enthralls, I am stuck with the roots

Which ground me, the poor willow, and mock me like Eve’s forbidden fruits.”

Now the anger has grown into vengeful address,

Simmering, sulking, cultivating, gone drunk with the delusion of death.

In a language only known to its chosen kin, it shrieks and giggles with madden distress,

Season by season the willow stands, the same flourish and demise cycle ‘til it takes its last breath.

Bitter cold winter bites, as if it knew this would be the frail tree’s final day-

Plumage all gone, passion burnt out, the willow quietly dies with the Autumn sway.