The Sorrow of the Weeping Willow
Why does the willow weep as if curse’d
by a witch’s spell. To be cast away
from whom it loves with so much left unsaid.
Shackled by roots the willow wallows day
after day. Every branch a memory
of a moment it can’t have back. Its heart
aches and cracks the bark that tells its story
of love gone to waste before it could start.
And so the willow weeps a pond of tears
right beside it. It’s life-like reflection
sways the same way when a spring breeze appears,
but it’s deceived by rippling rejection.
The willow’s sorrow remains and runs deep
In its roots. Cursed to be alone and weep.
There are many reasons to love her beauty:
The way the sun gleams off the seas of
her cerulean eyes. They guide me to her
like a lighthouse for the old sea captain.
Her chestnut hair falls to her shoulders with
the exception of the strands tucked
behind her ear like curtains being drawn
to unveil the perfectly composed orchestra
that is her face.
She shoots a smile like a gun slinger and
her lips are the smoking barrel. The high noon
sun is the spotlight upon her nearly flawless
face. Flawless except for the one imperfection,
the freckle perched just above her lips. It sits
alone, an outcast of her face telling stories of
secrets her lips dare not speak of. So little,
so inviting; to sit beside and hear the stories
of what truly makes her perfect and how
she was marked with this entrancing beauty.