Weeping Willow

Near a shore of rough water
it drinks deep
through the root

It's seen all the seasons
and knows the colors of each one

For the Young come along
to sway in the arms
But then Old stops by
and rips off a vine

The Fateful aires push hard
as if to snap it's long trunk
Those nightmarish winds
Oh, how long must they blow?

That look of the Great Oaks
seem to mock it's poor plight
They stand so straight and tall,
hardly moving at all!

It always fears this Fall.

In little time it recalls
the mystic waters
which
keep the bark soft
And then leaks a small tear.

So with a sniff and a sigh
It now stretches out wide
to praise that great Aire

Then, casting aside doubt
of breaking at all,
It learns to touch
the Ground

Draft - 2009 © CL Pridemore
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