Willow
She’s been alone a while now; count her rings.
Those knotted fingers long since lost their grip,
and through her thinning hair she feels the whip
of wind. She groans and bends, she sighs and sings.
Her ancient, drooping limbs are gnarled with years;
there’s sorrow in her sallow, hidden face,
and yet she cries with such surprising grace
that she commands respect, despite her tears.
You’ll find her sitting by the riverside,
where many seek her aid, her healing skin.
As frail as she appears, her roots run deep.
She’ll listen tenderly as you confide
the secrets you’ve been keeping locked within;
the willow understands your need to weep.
